


creep

by amybeegood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: #daddy, #daddyknowsbest, #daddysaysbrushyourteethprincess, ...ehhh...maybe some of it's consensual..., 404 Ben Solo Not Found, 404 Rey Not Found, ALSO NOT A HANDBOOK FOR SAFE-SANE-CONSENSUAL BDSM, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And no - you still aren't getting the ending you think you want, And you are always a bad girl, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Author Doesn't Give Much of A Shit Either, Ben Needs A Restraining Order, Ben Solo is really not nice, Ben Solo is the creepiest daddy, Boundary Issues, Choking, Confinement, Corporal Punishment, Corruption, Daddy Kink, Daddy makes accidents happen when you are a bad girl, Daddy's Little Kitten Has Claws, Dark, Dark Han Solo, Dark Padmé Amidala, Dark Reylo, Dark and messed up shit, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Disturbing Themes, Does it count as a slow burn if only one of them knows how far they've gone?, Don't make daddy punish you, Don't piss him off, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Anal Sex For Really Extravagant Gifts, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Excruciatingly devoted Reylo, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fucking Creepy, Gags, Gaslighting, Gaslighting as an Extreme Sport, Grooming, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, I'm only warning you once, If you try to fuck with Daddy remember Daddy fucks back, Inhumanely Filthy, It's okay I love you anyway, Just let Daddy's temper wear itself out, Kidnapping, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is a fucking creep, Like father like son, Manipulative Kylo Ren, Mention of Child Kidnapping, Name-Calling, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Impact Play, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Now with even more dark Daddy kink, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Kylo Ren, Oh Come On. LIKE WE WEREN'T GETTING ANAL, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panty Kink, Patricide, Period Sex, Please Don’t Hate Me, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Kylo Ren, Possessive Sex, Power Imbalance, Protective Kylo Ren, Psychological Thriller, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Really Rich Men Getting Away With Murder, Recreational Drug Use, Restraints, Revenge, Rey Needs A Hug, Riding Crops, Rise of Dark Baby Rey, Rough Sex, Self-Denial, Slapping, Smut and Filth, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Suspense, THIS IS GOING TO BE DARK AND TWISTED, That Solo “charm” runs in the family, The Most Dysfunctional Love Imaginable, The apple didn’t fall too far from that tree, The things I do for love, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is NOT a handbook for how to handle your obsessive billionaire stalker, Threats and discussion of suicide, Threats of Violence, Truly sickening, Trust Mommy, Unreliable Narrator, Unrepentant Villain Ben Solo, Verbal Humiliation, Villain Ben Solo Gives Zero Fucks About His Very Bad Behavior, Villain Kylo Ren, Violence, What happens if you fall for the villain?, You'll Learn, Your permission is not required, and I cannot BELIEVE I didn't tag that sooner, drug overdose, fucking dark, it's not true love if it doesn't hurt, just drink your night-night juice and shhhhhhh, let go you're still holding on, or do, predatory behavior, punishment is coming either way, unless..., unreliable author, we're soulmates you just don't know it yet, what happens when you find out you have a stalker?, what happens when you find out you like it?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 177,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amybeegood/pseuds/amybeegood
Summary: tw: stalking, stalker, darkfic"A goal without a plan is just a wish."- Antoine de Saint-ExupéryIn which Ben Solo isn't the wishing type and his only goal isher.Creep PlaylistandCreep TrailerandCreep Trailer pt.2And thiseditby@temo_gemois *chef's kiss*...
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Kylo Ren/Ben Solo
Comments: 3020
Kudos: 1960
Collections: Favorite





	1. watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My Toothbrush Army](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+Toothbrush+Army).



> I've been thinking about this story for a while, but I sort of got sidetracked (of course) by a prompt, [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740).
> 
> For those of you who've read my stuff before, be advised this is going to be on the DARKER side for me. 
> 
> Please check those tags and if you have hesitations, don't read. You are welcome to DM me on Twitter [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy) if you have questions about sensitive content that may be spoilery. (I will not divulge major spoilers in tags or comments.)
> 
> You know I will keep the Archive Warnings set as they are, so if it isn't marked now, then it doesn't apply. Tags, however, may be updated as needed, and I always advise you review them before you read if you have triggers. 
> 
> Continue on at your own risk...and I hope you enjoy my _creepy_ take on Reylo...

Gorgeous artwork by [@alantieislander](https://twitter.com/alantieislander)! 

# watch

I feel it again, but I don’t turn around when that odd sensation of being watched pricks the back of my neck. Icy wind creeps under my scarf, and I pick up the pace.

_He’s watching me. I know it. Get home._

My apartment is a one-room shithole in a broken-down, converted brownstone that should have been condemned in the sixties. Still, I'm looking forward to getting there, knowing it will be warm for a change.

I’ve finally been able to pay the gas bill because of an unexpected windfall from work. Money’s usually tight, but not today.

I am excited to order some take-out and read the latest murder mystery in my favorite series. It’s been out for ages, and today I could afford to pick up a copy.

Moving faster, I brush off my paranoia, chalking it up to the anticipation I have over reading my new book.

But I swear I can feel eyes on me as I round the corner and hustle up the stairs to the fourth floor of my building, my keys already poking from between my fingers in the way women are told to carry them.

So we can stab an attacker in the eye if needed. Right. 

If someone has a gun or a knife, I’m pretty sure my house keys are going to be fucking useless.

While I’m thinking this, I step into my apartment. It is sparsely decorated with a hodge-podge of furniture I dragged home from the alley or the thrift shop or Finn and Poe’s whenever they get rid of something I can’t sell for cash.

Finn’s always redecorating their place to look like the cover of Veranda Magazine, and I’m happy to take their cast-offs, though I have a sneaking suspicion it's thinly concealed charity.

Don't get me wrong, I'll take what I can get. That coffee table they gave me last month sold for five-hundred bucks online and didn’t come a moment too soon. Besides, I don’t need a coffee table. I still have the crates Rose left when she moved out. They’re artsy, she says, and fit the mismatched décor if such a fancy word can be applied to my living space.

As always, the first thing I do when I get in is quickly fasten all seven bolts on the door. A girl can never be too safe, and the variety of chains and locks provides an illusion of protection between me and the outside world.

I hang up my coat and sleet-soaked beanie and scarf, dropping my satchel and moving immediately to the thermostat to turn up the heat. The ancient radiators hiss and rattle, but they will warm up the place quickly. I know this because I fixed them just last week for the fortieth time. Rose says I have a knack for it, but I think I just have a knack for not wanting to freeze my tits off.

Winter in New York is no joke.

I drag off my boots and toss them into the corner. Beebee, my eighteen-pound tabby of unknown heritage, stalks over and hops ponderously onto my bed, clearly ready for his dinner.

“Hey, big guy. Have I got a surprise for you!”

He stares at me, supremely disinterested in my feigned enthusiasm. He showed up at my doorstep when I moved here two years ago with Rose, although Rosie has been gone since April and I’ve been on my own since then.

Which is why money’s tight.

Rose found love, and after a whirlwind romance, she got married and moved in with her new husband and left me on my own to figure shit out by myself.

I mean. I’m happy for her, I am. She offered me some money to help with rent – which I stupidly refused out of pride – and she let me keep Beebee for company, even if he is just as much hers as mine. And I see her all the time.

It’s just…it's difficult not to feel resentful, I guess. I am trying to make it on my own. And I can do this, need to prove to myself I can. But it’s fucking hard. And Rose was always the one to manage the bills and shopping and making sure we had things like silverware and clean towels and tampons around. My role was always clear: I was in charge of scrubbing and fixing shit and bullying our awful landlord into repairing whatever I couldn’t.

Plutt is a special kind of asshole, and Rose says I really have a way with him.

It’s just a lot to manage all alone.

I keep my sweater on until the apartment warms up and go to the kitchenette to make a pot of tea, inspecting everything with a quick once over.

Since I’ve been by myself, I’ve developed a weird paranoia, and I need to stop it.

_Is this how I left the teapot this morning, with the handle turned in that direction?_

_Was the edge of the rug out of place like that before I left for work?_

It feels like someone’s been in here, but I know it's highly unlikely.

But after I put the kettle on, I walk, not run, to the laundry bin and look inside, sure I’m going insane as I dig out my underwear, stuffed at the bottom of the bin.

I’m almost positive I tossed them onto the top of the pile last night, right before my shower.

I try to remember. Did I leave them on the floor _first_ and toss them in after toweling off? Or did I really put them in the bin first then throw my towel on top?

I try to remind myself to remember for tomorrow, the order in which I place my laundry into the bin.

And then I realize I’m thinking like a crazy person and I should focus on reality.

In my rush to get home, I forgot to check the mail on my way up, and I’m expecting something important to come through any day now.

The kettle hisses, jarring me into action. I put a teabag into my mug and pour hot water over it, watching the water turn a pleasant, murky brown as it steeps.

If I hurry, my tea should be just right by the time I get back.

I slip on my sneakers, grab my keys, and yell, “I’ll just be a minute, Beebee!” and run downstairs to check the mail.

_Don’t be too long, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want to put Beebee off his dinner schedule._

_But it’s good you are checking the mail since you forgot to do it on the way up. You were in such a hurry, baby._

_Are you nervous? Can you feel my eyes on you? I wonder._

He licks his lips and adjusts his camera to focus on her apartment door so he will know the instant she returns.

Idly, he checks his watch. The outside time it takes for her to check the mail is six and a half minutes. She goes down the stairs to the mailboxes, always at a jog – never takes the elevator – and then needs another minute or two to open the box and sort her letters. If anyone else is there, she might have a very brief chat. She doesn’t, usually, though, which is good.

He doesn’t like it when she talks to the other tenants.

She’s too good for them, too good to be living like this.

_Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of everything soon enough._

His watch tells him three minutes have passed, so it will be another three or four for her to trot back up the stairs.

She’s in good shape, slim and strong from years of living in the city, walking and jogging up and down stairs and fending for herself and her cat and even her former roommate, Rose Tico, now Hux.

While he waits, he fantasizes about what it will feel like to have her lovely legs propped on his shoulders while he fucks her raw.

_You’ll like it rough, borderline violent, won’t you? I’ve seen how hard you fuck yourself with that naughty little toy of yours, you filthy girl. I know exactly what you want, just what you need._

He takes a sip of tea. It’s plain Lipton and not his favorite brand, but it’s all she can afford and he knows she only had time to pick up a few groceries after work today.

She’ll be able to get that more expensive Earl Grey she likes this weekend, though. She has a little money, now, thanks to him, which is why he felt entitled to take a single bag from her criminally under-stocked cupboards this morning.

She won’t be scraping and starving for long.

Her door swings open and she holds a handful of letters. He already knows it’s two bills and a notice of rent going up next month. Her building has recently undergone a change of ownership.

The other letter she received today, the one she’s been waiting for, sits beside his laptop, ready for him to deliver when the time is right.

But. Miss Rey Johnson has to earn it, first.


	2. check

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to get fucking dark, friends. Either brace yourselves for it now or run away while you can.

Amazing aesthetic by [@semperfidani](https://twitter.com/semperfidani)!

# check

I toss my mail onto the kitchen counter. It’s not a kitchen, not really, just a row of beat-up cabinets alongside one wall of the apartment. The countertop is chipped orange Formica and the sink barely functions, but I have a hotplate and a broken-down toaster oven and my plug-in teakettle. I even have a fridge, something Rose found for free online. It’s ugly as fuck but it still runs.

I’m praying it holds out until I can save up for another one, or I’ll be back to the cooler situation, which is no fun at all.

For now, I snag my satchel off the floor and crack open Beebee’s dinner, a seven dollar can of tuna that I’m not sure he deserves. He’s weaving around my ankles and yowling with hunger, even though there’s no way this cat is starving.

“Gonna eat like a king tonight, Beebee,” I inform him. “You ungrateful beast.”

I spend more on his food than mine most days.

But today, I have money. I’m a little late getting home tonight because I stopped by the market for Beebee's tuna and then the bookstore next to my subway stop.

Food is so expensive here, and that’s another thing I miss about having Rose as a roomie. Before she met her husband, Armitage Hux, a senior partner at the law firm where I work, she delivered sandwiches to rich assholes all day in the Wall Street district. She always brought home leftovers, and we ate good most of the time.

Those days may be long gone, but tonight I’m going to eat good, too, for a change. After paying the gas bill and buying my book, there’s just enough of my bonus money left over for me to order a Chow Mein combo with two spring rolls. I haven’t had take out delivered for an eon, and I am excited about it. It’s Friday, I don’t have to go to work tomorrow, and I’m totally not going to let the rent notice I just got freak me out and ruin my evening.

I give Beebee his tuna on a plate, which shuts him up and keeps him from underfoot while I run a bath and wait for my noodles to get here.

The little restaurant on the corner is fast and close, and it’s pretty much the only thing I like about living in this apartment.

Twenty-three minutes later there’s a knock at my door, and I undo all the latches and locks and hastily take my food from the delivery guy. He looks about as happy to be here as I feel about living in this neighborhood and to make up for it and the weather, I over-tip him. But maybe he’ll remember me next time and won’t fuck with my food, right?

I smile and he grins, giving me a head-to-toe once-over as if the extra money has somehow opened his eyes to the fact I’m wearing my bathrobe and nothing else.

_Ugh. Why are all guys just walking penises for brains?_

“’Kay, bye!” I bark, slamming the door in his face, suddenly too excited to eat to care if I offend him.

Before my food gets cold, I’m settled in the tub with my noodles and my book, a feat I am only able to accomplish with the help of the bathtub caddy Rose got me for an early Christmas present. I can prop my book and eat and soak at the same time and it is heaven, pure heaven.

From the other side of the bathroom, my smartphone plays some jazz music in the background. It sits safely on the lid of the toilet, far away from the possibility of ending up in the tub. I won the phone brand-new for doing an online survey, and the company even gave me an unlimited plan for the next two years, which is awesome, so I plan on taking excellent care of it.

One less thing I need to worry about, and it really helps me keep in touch with Rose and Finn and sometimes Poe.

It’s about the perfect Friday night when Beebee strolls through the partially-cracked bathroom door, pushing it open wider and making it squeak and scaring the living shit out of me. I flinch and splash and a few drops of bathwater get on my book.

“Fucking cat!” I bellow halfheartedly.

I’m jumpy tonight.

That feeling is back, and I’m going crazy.

_There’s nobody here, Rey. You need to get a fucking grip. Part of being a real, live grown-up adult is being able to handle being alone._

But a larger part of me, the part that still senses some vague menace hovering nearby, tells me I need to get a gun.

I think I’m going to go talk to Finn about it tomorrow. He'll know what to do.

He flips through the pages of her brand-new copy of the New York Times’ latest and greatest murder mystery. She’s a fast reader and he’s going to catch up reading his own copy while she’s sleeping in tomorrow. She’s already on page eighty-six and she only got the book last night. 

He knows she's on page eighty-six because he dropped by to check on things while she is out running her errands. She folded the page down to mark her place.

He’ll have to get her to take better care of her things once they’re together.

He moves through her apartment like a ghost, in absolute silence, aware of every squeaky board, conscious of the furniture placement and her overweight tabby cat, Beebee, who never bothers him. The place is rundown, and the only thing in the whole apartment that works perfectly is her window, which slides open noiselessly at the slightest coaxing.

Since it’s Saturday, she’ll only be out for an hour or two, picking up some more groceries and dropping off her dry cleaning for work before coming home to do her weekly chores. She won’t be long, so he won’t be able to hang out as he does on weekdays.

Those days are his favorite, when he knows she’s safely away, sitting at her little desk, tied to the phones and the endless demands of Hux and Canady and her overbearing supervisor, Ms. Gwen Phasma.

Yes, weekdays are the best. He can come right in and make himself at home and linger as long as he likes. He had copies of all of her keys made a while ago, so first things first, he always checks the mailbox in the lobby. He knows the other tenants see him on a regular basis and assume he lives in the building.

He makes a point not to be chatty. Nobody ever stops him or questions him when he heads up the stairs and lets himself into her apartment. He always goes to the window first, checking to see if she's added any new locks or bars or other barriers that might prevent him from coming and going as he pleases. He might need an alternate way to get to her, and it's good to have options.

Sneaking in through the window is ridiculously easy, too. All he has to do is make his way to the roof of the building and climb down the rickety ladder to the landing of the fire escape.

He’s had his cameras up ever since Rose moved out, and he faithfully checks these after the window. There’s one in the smoke detector – such a cliché to put it there, but it’s a good spot that covers the entire apartment – and another in the bathroom, set into the hole where there’s a missing screw in the crappy fixture holding the cheap metal towel rack to the wall.

Between that and her phone, he’s got her covered.

Yes, weekdays are his favorite, but he can still follow his routine while he's here today. After the window and the cameras, he evaluates the contents of her cupboards, touching the things she touches, running his fingers over her dishes and her meager stash of foodstuffs. Without fail, he takes a pretend sip from her favorite mug, putting his lips where hers will go, a prelude to a real kiss, before peeking inside that ancient, horrid fridge and growing appalled over the state of things in there – it’s always empty.

When she’s with him, she’ll never have to worry about things like this. He’ll take such good care of her.

Next, he goes to her bed and buries his face in her pillow and inhales, breathing in the scent of her economical, apple-scented shampoo that mingles so deliciously with the soft, womanly aroma of _her_. Someday his bed will smell like this, like Rey. He can hardly wait for the day, though he knows he will need to be patient.

He pokes around her nightstand, carefully examining her vibrator and chuckling fondly of the memories of all the times he’s watched her use it.

_Naughty, shameless girl. You’ll be so wicked for me, won't you, baby?_

He wets his lips and puts the vibrator back exactly where she left it. She doesn’t even know what she’s got coming or how long and hard he's going to give it to her. 

He saves the bathroom for last. That’s his favorite.

In the bathroom, he finds her comb and pulls it through his own dark locks, careful to keep from leaving any stray hairs behind. He returns the comb to its spot, then runs her toothbrush over his own teeth, getting a bit of a thrill that she has no fucking clue they’re already practically sharing everything two people can share. He takes a drop or two of her moisturizer and rubs it into the backs of his hands.

Then he turns to the laundry bin, which typically has a lovely little pair of plain cotton panties tossed on top.

Today is no exception and these he lifts out most affectionately, pleased as always at the sight of them because it means she isn’t wearing fancy lingerie for anyone. It's almost like she already knows to keep away from other men because he's coming for her.

_Soon. Very soon, if I can work things out. Just a little longer._

These practical cotton panties bring him peace of mind, even though he longs for the day when he can dress her in whatever he wants. She’ll be so pretty in lingerie, he imagines as he sniffs the crotch of her underwear, which is already perfumed with the heady, feminine scent of her pussy. 

The smell makes him hard, this and the sure knowledge of how _irrevocably_ he's going to violate her, of how thoroughly he's going to work his way into her body and mind and heart and soul, just as she's already worked her way into him.

He needs immediate relief from the tension, and he double checks his phone to ensure she’s still flitting about the city on her tedious little errands. It looks as if she's heading to her friend Finn's place, and a stab of jealousy almost sends him running out the door to hunt her down. But Finn lives with Poe, and Kylo is ninety-percent sure the two men are a couple and pose no threat. 

He clutches her underwear in his fist and stares at the tracking app on his phone, assuring himself she's not romantically involved with anyone else. There's no way. He can see all of her incoming messages and he listens to every one of her calls. 

After he’s positive she's far away, he unfastens his pants and helps himself to a bit of lotion from the medicine cabinet to masturbate with. He takes his straining cock in hand and strokes, firm and sure, thinking of how loud he's going to make her scream when he finally slams himself between her thighs.

His hand moves faster, pleasure coiling low in his gut as he brings himself to orgasm. The act is quick and methodical, a necessary release, same as when she uses that little toy of hers. It’s not real, not meaningful, and not even close to fulfilling. Not like it will be when they’re together. When he can finally make her his.

He’s always careful to aim for the bathtub when he comes so he can rinse away the evidence, and like he always does, when he gets cum on his hand, he is sure to dab the tiniest bit into the bristles of her toothbrush before he washes up.

Just a little promise from him to her.

Someday soon he’ll make sure she knows she’s already his. And has been for a while.


	3. learn

# learn

Her routine works so well with his, it’s seamless. She sleeps in on Sunday mornings because she needs to catch up after the hellish hours she spends working and commuting the rest of the week. While she lingers in dreamland, he reads their book and makes sure he’s caught up to wherever she left off.

It’s also a good time to review her voicemails and texts to make sure he didn't miss one. He usually _doesn’t_ miss anything, since they’re all programmed to come straight to his phone, too.

And she’s got her email connected to her smartphone, which makes things perfect. So easy for him, once he figured out how to get her to take that survey.

Once they’re together, he’ll definitely need to talk to her about giving out personal information over the internet. One never knows who’s out there lurking, waiting to prey on someone innocent like his Rey.

But she’s been jumpy lately. It’s almost like she knows he’s watching, looking out for her, keeping track.

So when he shows up at her place on Monday to check on things, he’s startled, then severely disappointed at what he finds.

_The fuck is my sweet little girl doing with a gun?_

His disappointment quickly churns into rage when he realizes there’s only one person who would have given her a deadly weapon.

It must’ve come from her friend Finn. He must've given it to her when she saw him this weekend. There’s no other explanation.

Her accepting help from another man is one thing, bad and uncalled for and she'll be punished for it later. He'll make sure to remember. But the fact she would want such a dangerous thing in her home? It’s outrageous and requires immediate intervention.

How the hell is he supposed to move to the next phase of their relationship if she’s planning on blowing his head off?

_I don’t fucking think so, baby. Time for you to learn your first lesson._

And today, for the first time, he is a little less circumspect about how he leaves things. On purpose.

He unfolds the corner of the bent page in her book, smoothing a manicured thumbnail over the wrinkle until the line is nearly invisible.

He moves her vibrator to the far side of the nightstand drawer instead of putting it back within easy reach where it normally rests.

He strolls to her pathetic excuse for a kitchen. Usually, she leaves her mug upside down in the dish drainer after she washes it faithfully each morning. He lifts it from its spot and sets it upright in the center of her ugly orange countertop. Then he shifts a cabinet door so it’s ever-so-slightly open.

Her gun he leaves exactly where she left it, but it _is_ loaded, and _fuck_ , this pisses him off all over again when he thinks about it. If he had to guess, he’d say she’s probably never even held a gun in her life, let alone shot one. She has no business keeping something so hazardous in her home, even if it is only temporary.

_I’m putting a fucking stop to this right fucking now._

He’s so upset he doesn’t even have the heart to brush his teeth with their toothbrush or leave an almost-invisible trace of himself behind.

He can’t believe it. That she would actually want to _shoot_ him.

Reminding himself he loves her and love is blind and she’s much younger than he is, he tells himself she just doesn’t know any better. And she’s a lovely young woman living alone in a dangerous city, and perhaps some protection isn’t an _entirely_ terrible idea. At least until it’s time for her to be with him.

Still, she needs to learn.

Vengefully, he snatches her underwear from the laundry bin and stuffs it into his pocket.

_Something to play with later. It’s the least I deserve, and if it scares the hell out of you when you find it missing…too fucking bad._

But first.

She needs to understand how her actions have consequences.

So, he does one more thing before he leaves.

He’s so worked up his hands are shaking and adrenaline burns under his skin when he casually slips out of the building and strolls to his car, which is waiting for him a block away. His driver is ironclad trustworthy and will wait for him through the apocalypse if need be. And Mitaka is too well paid and far too intimidated to ever say a word about where he’s driven his employer or for how long he's waited.

Kylo cannot afford to have traitors working for him, and anyone found discussing his private business will quickly be made to disappear and Mitaka knows it.

He slides into the luxury interior, but the car doesn’t move. Mitaka is waiting for further instruction, he realizes, and it takes a minute to pull himself together and order Mitaka to drive him to his offices downtown for his afternoon business meeting.

He’ll be early, but it’s fine. He can distract himself by reviewing the details of his last big real estate deal, which included a rather interesting bit of property: One very run-down little apartment building in the worst part of Hell’s Kitchen.

Mostly by the end of the day, I’m wiped out. It’s an hour walking and riding the subway to work, then ten hours _at_ work, if I’m lucky. Usually, it’s more like twelve, although I can hardly say no to the extra hours, and on long days I can take a whole thirty-minute lunch break.

Then it’s another hour or so to get home, depending on when I can catch my train. My supervisor refuses to let me leave early so I can get the _slightly_ faster train before the rush, even though I’ve offered to come in half an hour early instead a million times.

Honestly, I’ve given up.

But today, for the first time in a long time, I feel better, a sense of relief.

I went to Finn and Poe’s and finally told Finn I’ve not felt safe since Rose moved out.

Finn is awfully handsome, an inch or two taller than me with a lovely dark complexion and a wide, welcoming smile and warm brown eyes that always light up when he sees me. When I showed up out of the blue, his familiar gaze ran over my face and instantly read my worry, and, as I hoped he would, he invited me in and made me sit down and tell him everything.

The great thing about Finn is he’s a good listener, and he takes me seriously. Poe, his husband, tends to wave things off as impossible coincidences unless there’s concrete evidence sitting right in front of him.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Poe okay, it’s just he’s kind of a cocky asshole sometimes. But Finn loves him, and I love Finn, so Poe is part of the deal now.

I was glad, though, that Poe wasn’t there when I bluntly laid it all out to Finn.

"I feel like someone's watching me. I'm afraid something bad is going to happen."

He asked a few pointed questions, and when I answered I felt like I sounded too paranoid, especially while so sanely seated on their trendy sofa in their tastefully styled living room in their posh classic six where they live on the Upper West Side. Poe’s an interior designer for a fancy company I still can’t pronounce the name of, and together he and Finn are doing their very best to live the gay dream.

Which apparently includes arming themselves to the teeth.

I know this because after I finished talking, Finn showed me a small assortment of pistols he had laid out on top of the dresser in the master bedroom and let me pick one. Then he gave me a box of bullets and showed me how to load and unload them.

“Don’t point it unless you intend to shoot. And never shoot unless you want to kill.”

I swallowed. “Fuck. This feels so serious.”

“This _is_ fucking serious, Peanut. You don’t play around with guns. But if someone’s coming at you, you fucking pull the trigger and don’t fucking hesitate.”

“Okay! Jeez, I got it.” I was nervous just holding the damned thing. It was heavier than I expected. “Aren’t you and Poe trying to adopt a baby? Why do you have so many guns lying around?”

“They’re Poe’s. His family owns some fancy gun club in the Hamptons. We were clearing things out before the adoption agent visits next week.”

I snickered. Poe Dameron comes from old money and it galls his parents to no end that he ended up with Finn, a nobody, like me. But one of Poe’s redeeming qualities – his _most_ redeeming quality – is he’s head over heels for Finn, and he takes me at my word when I say I’ll fucking castrate him if he ever hurts my friend. I was here first, and Poe respects my position.

“I’m planning on taking these to the safe-deposit box later, and if you borrow one, well…what Poe doesn’t know won’t kill him. And if it’ll make you feel better to have some protection on hand, then it’ll make me feel better, too.”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

He grinned and shook his head.

“Nah. At least no crazier than you were when we met.”

Phasma’s long, pointy Jimmy Choo taps impatiently from the corner of my eye, and my spine snaps to attention when I realize I’ve been staring at the floor next to my desk for a solid five minutes while thinking about the gun.

“Oh! So sorry for interrupting! I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she purrs in her usual frosty tones as my eyes reluctantly meet her piercing blue ones.

I can tell by the sarcasm dripping off of her she’s pissed. She never yells when she’s mad, just gets quiet and cold until the ice in her voice is hard enough to etch glass.

She has an intense British accent, which makes everything about ten times worse. I’m pretty convinced Phasma is actually human somewhere beneath that cold, hard, pasty white exterior, but I’ll never see it. I think she’s dating someone, although I _also_ think she’d rather light herself on fire than reveal a personal detail, especially to me, the bane of her existence.

She tosses a stack of file folders on my desk, jarring me the rest of the way out of my dubious internal ruminations on whether I do or do not actually have the balls to shoot a potential intruder with Finn’s gun.

“I need these briefs ready to go, _yesterday_. Don’t make me explain to Canady why they’re not done, or I’ll be throwing you directly under the wheels of that bus _myself.”_

God, I fucking hate her. But I hate Canady more. He’s older and a total pig. And once he starts in on me, he’ll go all red-faced and blustery and sometimes swipe papers off his desk in a tempestuous fit only spoiled, middle-aged, narcissistic white men can have. Then I’ll be forced to crawl around on the floor and pick up his mess for him.

He does it on purpose, I think. So he can watch me.

Of the two partners at the firm, Hux is marginally more tolerable, especially after he fell in love with Rose. It happened pretty much out of the blue when she dropped by to deliver lunch one day, about a year ago, and when he found out we knew each other, he made no secret he wanted an introduction.

He wasn’t creepy about it, though, and he wanted me to check with Rose first to make sure she was interested. I think that _might_ be the most considerate thing I’ve ever seen him do by far, but unfortunately, when he and Rose fell in love, I still ended up screwed. So I still kinda hate him.

He’s a stone-cold shark of a lawyer, demanding and abrasive sometimes, but at least he doesn’t leer at me the way Canady does. And Rose tells me Hux is as faithful as a hound dog, so I put him at a solid two on my list of people I actively hate.

The number one spot is usually a three-way tie between Canady, Phasma, and my landlord, Unkar Plutt, who I privately refer to as the Landlard. We’ll get to him later.

Anyhow. I’m kinda torn on whether I should even keep Hux on my shitlist. He's never technically done anything awful. 

If anything, he’s just chilly and brusque and utterly unsympathetic to my pitiful little problems, like if I need an extra twenty minutes for lunch because I get my period unexpectedly. 

He doesn’t give a shit about trying to convince Phasma to adjust my schedule a tiny fucking bit, either, even though I’ve asked him about it more than once.

But. I got a Christmas bonus this year, which was as surprising as it was welcome. And I know it was from him.

Of course, Hux will never actually admit he gave it to me. No, that would be too out of character, even if Rose has softened him up the tiniest bit. The envelope with my bonus in it was left anonymously on my desk with a typed message “If you mention this to me, even a hint, I’m denying everything and taking it back from your future paychecks. Merry Christmas.”

I haven’t said a word. I figure Rose must’ve worn him down and convinced him I needed the cash, though.

Which I did. _Do_.

Under the weight of Phasma’s bitchy stare and the ever-worsening weather beating against the windows, I open the folders on my desk and get to work.

At least when I get home, I’ll have heat. And leftover Chow Mein that I saved from Friday night. And I splurged and bought myself a box of the good tea when I picked up groceries on the way home from Finn’s this weekend. The fridge is less empty than it's been for a while.

And Christmas is coming soon. I know I’ll get at least two extravagant dinners and one office party out of the deal.

But the reminder my rent is going up next month tugs incessantly at the back of my mind. I’m going to have to find a way to make more money soon, or I won’t have a home at all.

I really wish I’d hear back from Jakku Community College. I applied for admission weeks ago, and if I can start in January and take extra classes, I’ll have my legal assistant certificate by next Christmas.

Rose assures me if I expand my credentials, I’ll have some leverage, and I agree. They will have to give me a raise or I can find a better paying job somewhere else.

I pore over the files Phasma left for me and decide if I don’t get an acceptance letter or a call back soon, I’m going to have to take half a day off work and go talk to someone at the school in person.

I’m running out of time, hanging on by the edges of my fingernails, barely scraping by.

I can’t afford any more financial disasters.


	4. look

Lovely moodie by [@EmilyFiction](https://twitter.com/EmilyFiction)!

# look

I get home from work and immediately feel it. Something’s off.

_The gun._

Certain I’m losing my mind, I bolt for the dresser. The gun is right where I left it.

But the apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

My head whips around, faster than my panic can catch up.

It takes me a minute to realize the sound I’m missing is the friendly hum of the fridge.

_Ah, fuck._

The door is cracked slightly open, and it looks like the dishtowel I hung from the door’s handle got wedged between the door and the seal.

And then I see it’s unplugged, and my heart sinks even further.

Exasperated tears fill my eyes. How could I be so fucking careless?

“No no no!” I whisper, staring at the outlet with dismay. The fridge and the toaster oven share a single outlet because the hotplate shorts out every time it shares with anything. I don’t know if it’s my shitty appliances or the even shittier wiring, but I’m so paranoid about a fire, I religiously unplug the toaster every morning and check it again obsessively every night before bed.

_Fuck, I pulled the wrong cord._

There’s no other explanation.

I plug the fridge back in and nothing happens and suddenly I want to throw something. I want to scream and cry and fucking rage.

I wonder if anyone else has to deal with shit like this? With being too fucking poor to live but not quite desperate or shameless enough to just rob a bank? For a brief, wild minute, I entertain a fantasy of actually doing it, robbing a bank.

At least then I’d either go down in a hail of bullet-riddled glory or actually get away with it and be able to afford something decent to eat for a change.

As if to emphasize this point, my stomach lets out a hungry rumble.

I glare at the fridge, beyond frustrated.

All of a sudden everything wrong in my life is the fridge’s fault. I kick the door and feel better when my foot leaves a dent.

 _Good_ , I think spitefully, yanking the door open wide to take stock of things.

The inside of the fridge is a toasty seventy-two degrees, just like the rest of the apartment.

Of course it is. I fixed the radiators and cranked up the thermostat because I wanted to come home to a warm fucking place for a fucking change and wow, did that ever backfire.

Everything inside, not that there’s much, has to be tossed. My tears spill over. I hate wasting food, and _dammit_ I was really looking forward to my leftover noodles.

I leave the fridge plugged in, hoping it will kick into life, eventually. But part of me thinks the compressor is probably toast. I wonder if there’s a way to just bypass the compressor, and I realize that’s ridiculous and I know jack shit about appliance repair.

The damn thing probably just gave up entirely, like a patient taken off life support after being on it for too long, and I doubt it can be resuscitated.

I need a new fridge, and I can’t even afford a fucking cooler, let alone a fucking bag of ice to put in it.

I could borrow the money from Rose but not really. She’s my friend but she’s also married to Hux.

Taking money from my friend is one thing. But taking it from my boss’s wife is just plain awkward. Especially right before Christmas. Especially right after he gave me a secret Christmas bonus that I already spent on the overdue gas bill, among other things.

I could ask Finn, and I know for a fact he’ll give me anything I need. He’s been nothing but supportive and kind and sweet and helpful. And I know he loves me like family.

But _dammit_. I already owe him money, and I am so tired of asking for help. And I know he’ll have to mention it to Poe since their finances are being reviewed under a microscope right now because of the adoption. It might look odd to the adoption people for Finn to give some strange girl another couple grand, I don’t know.

And then Poe will give me that _poor little Rey fucked up again_ smile and that slight shake of his handsome head and a rueful sigh, while Finn will offer to help by asking me once again if it wouldn’t just be easier for me to be their live-in nanny.

I shudder. Fuck that. I can barely take care of myself and Beebee, let alone an actual human baby. And it’s weird enough working for Rose’s husband. How much more awkward will things be if I’m working for my best friend, especially when I inevitably fuck something up?

I wonder why Finn is even still friends with me when I have nothing to offer but problems.

_This is something you have to do on your own. If you can’t figure out the small shit now, then you’ll never make it when the big shit hits._

Admittedly, I do have a tiny hoard of savings I’d been hoping to put toward my first term at Jakku, counting on financial aid and scholarships to pay for future quarters, but _goddammit_ I still haven’t heard back from them, either.

Anger burns hot and furious behind my eyes, and I can’t quite catch my breath. I’m so fucking tired. Frustration bubbles up into my throat, and I can’t hold back the sobs of pure, unmitigated helplessness.

For a minute I stand there in my shitty apartment and put my face in my hands and bawl and wail and wonder what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.

Appliances aren’t covered by the lease, of course. I know this because I argued about it when our old fridge, the one before this one, went tits up.

_You could ask Plutt to look at it._

I mean. Plutt owes me for all the times I fixed the radiator.

In another life, the Landlard used to be an appliance repairman. I remember him telling me all about it. It’s one of those dumb details you learn about people when you’re trying to make small talk with them because you want to work the conversation around to a certain direction before realizing the other person is utterly fucking oblivious to anything but the sound of his own voice.

Sniffing, I go to the cupboard for a packet of Ramen and notice the door open a touch.

That’s funny, and my heart skips a beat. Usually, I make sure to shut the cupboards tight. We had a rat problem before Beebee found us and I’m extra careful…and then my gaze drops to the counter and my mug sitting square in the middle of it.

_That shouldn’t be there._

My brain tells me it shouldn’t be, and yet it incontrovertibly _is_.

I take a breath and then another.

Something isn’t right, and I think I’m losing my mind.

I can only gape in shock as I try to wrap my head around what I think is happening, around what’s _been_ happening. But my thoughts are stuck on an endless merry-go-round, spinning in the same circle, over and over until there’s nothing left but dread.

The way her slim shoulders stiffen when she finds her mug sitting out of place…it’s so fucking priceless. She’s not facing the camera, and oh, how he wishes he can see her face.

_Do you feel me now? You do, don’t you, sweetheart? Good._

He records everything that feeds in through his cameras, and he knows he’ll come back to this particular scene over and over again, just to relive it, to savor that startled double-take, followed by a softly uttered _what the fuck?_ when she turns and takes a cautious look around.

He can practically taste her burgeoning alarm as her eyes trace over the room.

Glued to the screen, he watches her run again for the gun hidden in her dresser drawer.

Still right where it should be. Her hands shake as she carefully makes sure it's loaded.

_This is a threat you’ll understand, I hope._

His blood thrums with anticipation when she spins in a slow circle, seeking anything else off-kilter.

_I love you and you need to learn the lengths I am willing to go to, baby._

He presses the flat of his palm over the expanding bulge in his pants, thinking about the soft cotton panties he pocketed earlier and how he hopes she’ll look for those next.

And she does.

_Good girl._

Smiling, he watches, captivated by how hurriedly she makes her way to the bathroom, taking in her every movement, relishing each expression of dawning confusion and bewilderment.

And fear.

_Are you afraid, Rey? Do you wonder if you’re losing your mind, or if it’s something bigger, more dangerous than that?_

_Something like me?_

Oh, she has no idea. Not really.

_I've been watching you for so long…_

_Stalker_ sounds so cliché. So boring. And he’s so much more than that.

His camera flickers over to the alternate view from the bathroom, and he observes as she pokes her head inside, checking for the bogeyman before zeroing in on the laundry hamper.

It's like she already knows.

He chortles as she pulls her clothes out with increasing panic and another whispered, “What the fuck? No. No.”

_Oh, yes, yes, baby. You definitely feel me._

She doesn’t scream, but she reaches for her phone – _mine_ – and he thinks she’s going to make a call. Much to his consternation, it’s probably Finn who she thinks of first, although he’d rather she call Rose and confirm she’ll be attending the Hux’s Christmas Eve party this weekend.

Otherwise, things won’t go according to plan at all.

He takes a few deep, calming breaths. She’ll be there. She was the maid of honor at Rose’s wedding. Rose Hux is her best friend. 

And if she doesn’t show up, he has an alternate plan, although it is so much less…elegant.

But he’s arranged their reunion so carefully, worked through every contingency down to the finest facet, planned every future move with painstaking detail.

_It’s only a matter of time, baby. We are so much closer than you know._

The actions he takes over the next weeks will commence a chain reaction, like dominoes, and finally bring them together.

Like fate.

And he _knows_ it’s fate, can feel it as surely as he can feel her rioting emotions. It’s meant to be.

He knows this and she confirms it. Because instead of calling for help, his brave, clever girl taps at the screen of her phone and disconnects before the call goes through.

She’s not calling anyone.

Instead, she huddles into a ball on the floor next to her bed and cries her heart out.

_You’re mine, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you know it every day for the rest of your life._

_Soon._

_The fridge, the mug, my missing underwear. The fridge, the mug, my missing underwear._

_The fridge._

It can be explained.

I try to imagine what Finn would say if I tell him, what Poe will say.

They’ll tell me to be logical.

Maybe all of this is just me being stupid.

_The mug, though._

That seems so unlike me.

Doesn’t it?

Although, I’ve been so distracted and stressed out lately. I _did_ leave my keys in my jacket yesterday instead of in the little silver bowl on the desk by the door. It took me forever to find them.

_What about your missing underwear?_

Maybe…maybe Beebee took them and hid them under the bed.

He’s done odd things like that before.

But I’m afraid to look around, scared of what happens if I don’t find them. The feeling of being watched intensifies. I sniffle and glance around the apartment again. Beebee yowls and weaves around my outstretched feet, demanding his dinner.

_The fridge._

The seal on the fridge has never been great and sometimes the door pops open, so I double-check it constantly.

_The mug._

This is all a figment of my overactive imagination.

_Your missing underwear…_

Maybe they got lost in the laundry?

_Or… Someone came in here._

But this seems insane to even think it. And right now I need to do something sane.

I need to take some kind of action.

It’s dark outside. I probably shouldn’t venture out.

But there’s nothing outside as scary as staying here, stuck with only my own thoughts to terrorize me.

So. I feed Beebee.

And then I decide to put my boots back on, grab my purse, and, after tucking Finn’s gun inside, head out into the dark, wet city with a single mission in mind.

Irritated, he takes breath after breath and reminds himself she's probably just running to the store, likely to pick up some fresh groceries if she has any money left over from the bonus she found at work.

A little present from him, not that she knows where it came from.

It helps that his offices are in the same building she works in, even though he’s rarely there during the day.

He usually doesn’t need to be around, unless it’s for a quarterly shareholder’s meeting.

But what _really_ helps is that he's best friends with her boss.

Leaving the money was easy as could be. He stops by Hux’s office to chat now and then, but only when Rey isn't around. He’s been avoiding running into her again until the time is right, so she doesn't get suspicious.

He saved his RSVP to Hux's party as a pretense to cover dropping off Rey’s envelope. Reminded of her own lack of RSVP for the fifth time in an hour, he swigs a healthy swallow of scotch and sulks. 

_You’ll need to learn the appropriate etiquette for responding to party invitations, sweetheart._

_There are different rules in the world you are about to enter._

_Mine._

Her lack of follow-through on this particular social grace is annoying, almost as aggravating as her spontaneous departure from the apartment this evening. He should have known she'd do something unscheduled after she found her refrigerator broken. He wants to watch her all the time, have her in his sights and at his disposal day or night.

And that's the eventual plan, he just needs to wait a little more.

He’s been patient for this long, and he can be patient for a while longer. In the meantime, he can’t help but review the scene of her returning to the apartment while he waits for her to come back. He’s all the way uptown, so he’ll give her a few more minutes. She’s taking a long time. 

After an hour, he’s ready to say _fuck it_ and just go there when she enters the apartment, dripping wet and dragging along a camping cooler on wheels. It’s shiny and looks expensive.

She’ll need a way to keep her food cold until she can afford a refrigerator, he supposes, since he made sure her old one will never start again when he viciously yanked the cord from the wall and then reached behind it and tugged on the coils at the back until they pulled loose.

 _That cooler must’ve cost a pretty penny,_ he muses with fresh annoyance, even if part of him is impressed she was able to scavenge it from anywhere in Manhattan this time of year.

She brings something out of the cooler, and he pauses. It's a security bar, which she promptly secures to the window, goddammit.

Heat floods his face, from the top of his hairline all the way to his chest.

_You think you can keep me away? Keep me out? You think this is a fucking joke?_

That steel bar on the window infuriates him beyond all logical reason. But he doesn’t do anything other than clench his jaw hard enough to nearly crack a molar.

She's making a phone call for real this time.

Her greasy pig of a landlord. 

He snatches up his phone and listens as Plutt answers the call.

 _“Rey, Rey, Rey. My little sweetie in 4-B. What can I do for ya, honey?”_ Plutt’s voice is oily and condescending and he sounds half drunk. Kylo wants to murder him for using an endearment on Rey.

_She’s mine._

As if she’d ever even _think_ of–

But her voice has taken on a shy, syrupy-sweet wheedle that makes him pound a fist onto the shiny top of his desk. Violently.

_“Mister Plutt? Oh, thank goodness you answered! I don’t know what to do. I need to borrow some hand tools…and I was wondering…”_

Plutt’s heavy breathing is so repulsive, Kylo cringes as he listens on, imagining the corpulent, balding man scratching his belly or picking something from his disgusting teeth while Rey speaks.

That she even has to lower herself to talk to such scum is untenable.

 _“Well, honey, of course I can loan ya some tools, I reckon.”_ Plutt cuts in. _“I’m not gonna be accused of never showin’ no Christmas spirit. And what else was it you was wonderin’?”_

Kylo’s lip curls in disgust as Plutt releases a slightly audible belch to punctuate his question.

Undaunted, Rey implores, _“…could you maybe come and take a look at my fridge? It’s broken and I…I know how good you are at fixing things like that.”_

_Fucking hell no. Oh, no, Rey. You did not just invite that piece of shit to come into your home._

How can she be so naive? It's perfectly evident Plutt _wants_ her. 

His nostrils flare and he scowls into the dimness of his luxuriously appointed study.

He’s had enough waiting and Saturday can’t get here soon enough. Much to his mother’s consternation, he’s declined half a dozen invitations to events on Christmas Eve to ensure he has the whole night free for the Hux’s party.

And in the meantime, since his first message didn’t get through loud and clear, he’ll need to leave another, more _obvious_ one.

_Tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I said I'd update Body of Work next and I'm CLOSE. But you want it to be perfect, right? And I've been plugging away out of the next House of The Rising Sun chapter, too, and I am STOKED for it. 
> 
> After finishing Double Down, I just needed to catch my breath, and this was closer to being ready to go, and it's been a few days, and I figured posting this is better than nothing. *winks* 
> 
> xoxoxo......love you all! <3


	5. choose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** There will be a few mentions of pregnancy for a supporting character (Rose) and mentions of adoption and a baby (for Finn/Poe) throughout the fic. 
> 
> There will NOT be any pregnancies/children for the main protags, nor any childbirth scenes, so I decided not to tag for it, although it may be mentioned occasionally. 
> 
> Just keep this in mind if it's a trigger for you, since the subject will come up periodically from this point forward without any additional warnings.

Super-creepy aesthetic by [@semperfidani](https://twitter.com/semperfidani)!

# choose

Work is awful today.

Phasma is horrid all morning, frigid as ever, and right after she chews me out for not getting her messages to her fast enough, Hux calls me into his office and reminds me I never RSVP'd to Rose's invite to their Christmas party. He despises mingling work and personal stuff, and I can tell he's miffed that he even needs to bring it up.

I'm a little bitter over his obvious irritation, but I try to quash it.

There's no need to be outright rude, and I remind myself how much this party means to Rose. She loves Christmas and this is her first chance to host a real, grown-up party. And I should probably show a bit of gratitude for the bonus Hux gave me.

_I can be the bigger person, even if you're being an asshole._

"I'll be there," I mumble. "Sorry I forgot to reply."

To myself, I vow to call Rose on my break and let her know, too. 

But I don't get a break for the rest of the day, since Canady demands my full attention, shouting that he needed work done "five bloody minutes ago" even though I'm positive this is the first I've heard of it.

This doesn't stop him from making me pore through a stack of briefs to find something I'm sure he's never even going to use in court. Even worse, he insists I do it in his office so he can personally monitor my progress, and I swear I can feel his watery eyes crawling all over me while I work. 

Under my justifiable though very much internalized outrage, I barely have any time at all to stress out about my growing certainty I'm being watched. The sensation was so strong last night, it even prompted me to spend money I don't have on shit I probably don't need. 

The security bar on my window makes me feel better, though. Once I borrow some tools from Plutt, I'll install the new deadbolt I bought, too. It shouldn't take me long, and I can probably do it in an hour or two on Saturday before the party. 

But dammit, it was so expensive, and I already had to get the cooler and- 

I _really_ can't afford it, not that I could afford the cooler or the bar on my window, either.

I try not to be too pissed at myself for spending almost everything I’ve saved. I was planning on using it for school, which is another worry I don't have time for right now.

Maybe Finn and Poe will decide to unload some furniture before their adoption goes through and I can sell it and replenish my severely depleted savings.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Maybe the deadbolt is overkill. I still have the receipt, in case I decide to return it. 

Maybe I should. 

But, when I get home, I walk to the window, checking it after shucking my raincoat and boots.

At first, my brain doesn’t make sense of what I’m looking at.

The bar is still in position, but even as I sigh in relief, I see it.

My letter. The one I was expecting. From Jakku Community College. 

It’s just sitting there, propped on the windowsill.

The envelope has been neatly sliced open along one side, elegantly done by a letter opener or a knife, not shredded awkwardly, torn with abandon, as I tend to open my mail.

Swallowing my confusion and the thick, heavy dread seeping into my pores, I pull the letter from its envelope and read it, in something of a numb state of shock.

> _Dear Ms. Johnson:_
> 
> _We are pleased to welcome you to Jakku’s Legal Assistant Program. In order to best serve you, please reply by logging into your student portal (as indicated on the enclosed document) to confirm your intent to enroll in winter term._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _H. Kalonia, M.Ed._   
>  _Head of Admissions and Enrollment Services_

Except…there is no other document enclosed, and it is perfectly obvious whoever opened my letter took it.

I turn the letter over, seeking some other clue, some hint for more information that might make everything make sense.

And scrawled on the back of the page in childish letters – the kind someone uses to deliberately disguise their penmanship – are the words:

Beebee bumps against my ankles and meows, uncaring if my heart is racing a mile a minute and I can’t catch my breath or that my hands are suddenly shaking and my knees feel like Jello and nothing is working right.

Blinking, I set down the letter and move to the kitchen on autopilot.

But. When I stoop to fill Beebee’s water dish, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest.

All the air leaves my lungs.

Sitting in Beebee’s empty dish is a single bullet.

Like the kind that goes in the gun Finn gave me.

I keep a box of bullets just like this in my underwear drawer.

But when I run to the drawer, the box and all of the bullets in it are gone.

And this is when I first know for real, without a shadow of a doubt, I have a serious problem.

I have a stalker.

And he can get inside my apartment.

After she finds the bullet, she looks in her dresser, then runs back to the letter again, rereading his message on the back. He can tell she's afraid, which is good, the way her letter visibly shakes in her hands as she stares at it, how she glances around looking for anything else amiss.

She doesn’t find anything, although she’s eyeing the smoke detector with a little too much suspicion.

He is counting on her being too afraid to do anything even if she finds a camera, though. He is counting on her pragmatism and independence to prevent her from making more trouble. And he knows for a fact she won't get law enforcement involved. She doesn't trust the police at all.

_I know you better than you can imagine._

This time when she leaves, he has a good guess as to where she’s going. She only takes her keys and no coat. She’s going to see Plutt.

And he knows why.

Yesterday she mentioned to her landlord she wanted to borrow some tools, and when Kylo snooped around today, he found the cheap hardware store deadbolt, still in the box.

After ten minutes, she returns carrying a drill and a screwdriver and a chisel, and he perks up. 

_You're actually installing it._

This annoys him. He was half hoping she'd return it - he knows she can't afford to keep it - but, no.

So disappointing. 

Fuming, he watches. Interestingly, she makes no phone calls – particularly to the police, which again doesn’t surprise him – only uses her smartphone to google "tips for installing a deadbolt."

_This is the last time I underestimate you, baby._

She lays everything out on the ugly countertop.

His bottom lip purses into a pout as he observes her patiently read the online directions, mirrored onto his own phone, and use the chisel and drill and screwdriver to install the damned thing in less time than it takes to order brunch.

As if it’s going to stop him. As if it’s not going to _infuriate_ him.

Part of him is impressed, admittedly. Even if her display of ingenuity and stubbornness needs taming.

The door is already riddled with locks and chains from the inside, not to mention the other two flimsy exterior bolts, which he already has keys for, plus the doorknob itself.

An additional barrier is more of an annoyance than anything. He’ll have no trouble getting past it, and if he can’t? Well, then he’ll break her fucking window.

Because she’s obviously made her choice.

_Choosing to fight back? That's a bad, bad idea._

Unaware of his furious scrutiny, she adds her new key to her keychain and tests the new bolt with a few disgustingly satisfying snaps of the lock.

He’s already plotting his next move when, to his surprise, she leaves again. Plutt’s tools remain on the kitchen counter, but she doesn’t take her purse or coat, only her keys.

_Who else are you talking to? Someone in the building._

His question is quickly answered when she returns minutes later with a large plastic pet crate.

_Ah. Ahhhahaha, oh._

She’s getting Beebee out of the line of fire. 

He laughs, first just a bark of amusement, then a deep, rumbling bellow that bursts forth until his eyes water and he shakes his head.

She thinks she can _stop_ him.

She just doesn’t know. All she's doing is upping the stakes. Feeding his temper. 

_I can do so much more than hurt your stupid cat, sweetheart. I just hope you remember you brought everything that happens next on yourself._

Another surge of amusement escapes him as she wrangles a very resistant Beebee into the crate.

Suddenly all action, he calls for his car, always at the ready. He can be at her place in less than ten minutes under the right circumstances, traffic-wise.

From the car, he listens to her brief conversation with Rose Hux.

_“Rosie? It's Rey. Can you take Beebee for a while? I…have some stuff going on, and I just can’t deal with him right now…”_

_Yes, Rose. Do take the cat. By all means._

He can see by the tracking app on his phone she’s made her slow but determined way to the nearest bus stop.

She won’t risk bringing Beebee on the subway. And hauling twenty pounds of pissed off feline uptown by bus and on foot will take her at least half an hour, not counting the return trip.

He’s not been to her place in the evening, but he isn't worried when he exits the car and orders Mitaka to wait for him.

He’s not angry.

Not until he encounters her new deadbolt, and it takes him way too fucking long to unlock it.

The fact he even has to go to such lengths just to get inside enrages him all over again. He owns every building in a twelve-block radius, including this one.

_Can’t fucking believe you’re making me do this, making me break in like a common fucking petty criminal._

He is momentarily thankful he learned how to pick locks at boarding school a million years ago. Though an unconventional and unsanctioned addition to his education, the skill came in rather useful for pranks and other, less-than lawful excursions in his youth, and now at the ripe old age of thirty-two…well, it's extremely helpful. 

_If only my mother knew…oh, she'd never approve…_

Eventually, the deadbolt clicks open.

_You see? I can come in here and get you any fucking time I want._

He takes a few deep breaths and heads for the gun.

It’s not there.

Which means she’s still carrying it around the city with her, goddammit.

Her shiny new steel bar remains fixed firmly in place across the window and his nostrils flare contemptuously.

_Wrong choice, baby. That’s going to cost you._

His letter lies on her bed.

Apparently, it’s not enough of a warning. Not _nearly_ enough.

Looking around, he licks his lips.

He needs to make sure he has her full, undivided attention. He needs to show her how serious he is.

Sitting on top of her dresser is just the thing.

It’s perfect, really.

After he finds a Sharpie marker, right where she always leaves it in the top desk drawer, he makes his point with a few eloquent strokes.

There’s not going to be any mistaking him, now. Not a fucking chance.

Once he’s set things back into place, he stares at his handiwork for a few minutes. His phone buzzes, alerting him she’s on the move again, and he leaves the building quietly and quickly. Nobody bats an eye, not that he expects them to.

Back in the warm luxury of his town car, he makes a call.

_Not Kylo anymore. It’s Ben now. It will have to be Ben all the time, from here on out._

“Ben fucking Solo? Actually ringing _me_?"

"Hux." 

"To what do I owe this unprecedented and dubious honor?" His friend's sarcasm is always _en pointe_. "I thought you abandoned phones when you dropped all that stock in Starkiller.”

“And not a moment too soon. That investment would have bled my coffers dry.”

Ben forces a congenial laugh, and Hux chides, “I hope you aren’t calling to cancel Saturday. Rose is kind of excited you’re coming. She says I need to spend more time with friends. Have more of a social life.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I was going to have Mitaka fetch a bottle of something from the cellars but I wanted to check with you or Rose first. I thought I recall her mentioning a preference for red or white?”

“Well, fuck me, I never would have pegged you for such consideration,” Hux drawls. “But, since you’re asking, she likes buttery chardonnays and crisp _rosés_.”

“Ah. Right. I should have remembered _rosé_ for Rose. Of course. It was her friend who likes reds. Rey, right?”

“I think she does, actually,” Hux muses before his voice turns too clever for his own good. “If you promise to behave yourself, you can bring a bottle of each. Rey will be here, too.”

“Will she?” he purrs. _Excellent._

“Yes, and you might remember she works for me. If you put the moves on her and break her heart and turn her into even more of a distracted mess, I’ll personally disembowel you.”

Ben's laughter is genuine this time. “I’ll be a saint. I swear.”

Skeptical, Hux _humphs_ into the phone. “You'd better. If I don't get you, I'm sure Rose will. I can’t take sides in this one, old man. See you Saturday.”

“See you,” Ben replies, tucking his phone into his pocket and glaring out the window into the dark, dirty city. His hand tightens into a fist, stretching the leather of his glove until he wonders if the seams will pop.

_And I’ll be seeing you very soon, too, sweetheart._

It’s late by the time I get back to my building, well past my bedtime, and I’m exhausted. I didn’t eat dinner and I’m too tired to bother with it now.

I’m halfway up the stairs before it occurs to me. The only person who knows my comings and goings, who would have access to my mailbox and apartment or who has ever called me “sweetie” is Unkar Plutt.

Oh, shit, it didn't even cross my mind when I borrowed his tools and he kept hinting to bring them up himself and look at the fridge while he was there.

Ugh.

Now I don’t feel bad at all for installing the deadbolt without his permission.

Except when I get back, the bolt isn’t even locked. Clutching the gun in my purse, I bustle inside, ready for anything and kicking myself for forgetting to lock it after all the trouble I just went through installing the damn thing.

I could have sworn I locked it on the way out. I really need to start paying attention. 

After a harrowing peek inside the bathroom and a quick once-over, I determine the apartment is quiet and empty. Just as I left it. 

And then it all hits at once, in a single tidal wave of overwhelming emotion. I have a fucking stalker and it’s my gross landlord and rent is going up next month and he came in here and utterly violated my privacy and now I don’t even have Beebee for company.

I need to figure out what to do. I consider calling the cops, but…

But they're going to ask how I know someone was in the apartment. The letter is one thing, but it's insignificant. And if I tell them about the bullet in Beebee's dish and the missing box of extras, then they'll surely ask about my gun. Who owns bullets without a gun?

And then I'd have to fess up to having it illegally. And then they'll take it and probably find out it is registered to Poe.

Will he get in trouble? Will it mess up their adoption stuff? I don’t know.

Besides. Plutt is…Plutt. He's not that scary. I’m not sure he’s the type to actually _do_ anything sinister.

I’m not sure, that is until I see the _other_ thing he left. I must have missed it, earlier.

My blood turns to ice water in my veins, and I feel the color drain from my face.

And now I know I can’t call the police.

_Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck._

It’s this photo of me and Rose I keep on my dresser, taken when we went to Coney Island ages ago. She had it printed and framed for my twenty-second birthday.

The photo has been removed from the frame and someone, Plutt I think, drew little exes over Rose’s eyes. And another ex over my mouth.

The message is crystal clear.

_Don’t say anything._

I _should_ call the cops. I should _do_ something.

Except.

Except, I know exactly how seriously the police are going to take this. I’ve seen the news. I grew up in the system. I know the truth. 

They’re overworked and this will be a low-priority case.

They'll tell me I've already taken recommended precautions, increasing security. They'll tell me to call them back if anything more dangerous happens.

If it does? Then they'll question my every move, the clothes I wear, the places I frequent, my friends, the things I buy, all of it. My whole life will be up for investigation. And given how much of a shitshow my life is right now? Will they even believe me?

Will they think I'm trying to make trouble with Plutt because rent is going up? 

Either way, I'm pretty sure they won’t do jack shit unless I'm rich and famous or already dead.

I haven’t been hurt, and nothing’s been stolen other than a pair of underwear and a half-empty box of bullets for a gun I am definitely not supposed to have.

Again, I consider calling Finn. But, I can’t drag him into this right now. He deserves to be happy, and he has so many more important things to worry about. He's wanted to be a dad since he was a kid. I can't risk his chance at a family because I was stupid and led Plutt on with all my flirting and fake helplessness. 

And Rose…well, shit. I really can’t drag her into this, either. Not after what she told me when I dropped off Beebee. She’s going to have a baby and not even Hux knows, yet. She swore me to secrecy because she wants to surprise him on Christmas. 

I look at our picture with the little exes drawn over her eyes. No. I can’t risk Finn. Or Rose. They’re all I have.

_Rey, you need to figure out how to deal with this. This isn’t their problem._

Part of me believes I can just handle this myself. Plutt might be gross and creepy, but he’s never struck me as a violent type. Clearly, my flirting the other day let him think it was okay to cross certain boundaries. 

He doesn't even know where Rose lives. He never leaves his apartment unless he has to.

I'll just set him straight. When I return his tools. 

I'll start looking for a new place to live.

A tiny voice in my head argues.

_Moving takes money._

_And you don’t have any._

Fuck.

It’s after two o’clock in the morning when I finally drift off.

And as I fall asleep with nothing but the sound of my own tears to lull me, I think I really, really might be able to shoot someone after all.

If I have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to CaraQ301 who said it perfectly in your comment last chapter: "The meet and creep is getting closer!!!" 
> 
> This was so fucking perfect AND prophetic. I couldn't have said it better.
> 
> And YESSS! The meet and creep is indeed approaching...next chapter, my darlings...
> 
> xoxoxo!


	6. meet

Excellent moodboard by [@EmilyFiction](https://twitter.com/EmilyFiction)!

# meet 

**Christmas Eve –**

I’ve been beyond jumpy all week.

It’s dark when I leave for work and dark when I leave the office, and although I’ve not had any further incidents at my apartment, I’ve been taking my gun with me _everywhere_.

I know it’s illegal. I know I could get in huge trouble for having it, for carrying it without a license.

But it makes me feel better. Safer.

Plutt never said a word about the deadbolt or anything else when I returned his tools after a couple of days, although he keeps asking about the fridge and hinting he wants to take a look at it.

Like I’m letting him anywhere near my place again.

All week I’ve been asking around and nobody’s seen anyone unusual in the building. And Maz, who lives directly below me, insists she hasn’t seen anything odd.

I asked her after I borrowed the crate for Beebee.

Maz is about two hundred years old, and I adore her, even if her eyesight is terrible and she’s hard of hearing, to boot.

We have an understanding, Maz and me. I promise not to tell on her for smoking her Pall Mall’s on the fire escape, and she promises to keep me posted on any relevant gossip in the building and especially Plutt’s comings and goings.

I think maybe the deadbolt really is keeping Plutt out. And he knows if he says anything about it, then he’ll only prove his guilt.

I miss Beebee greeting me when I get home from work, but I’m relieved he’s doing just fine with Rose.

I'm headed to see her now, to her party.

After paying my cab driver an extravagant amount of money so I didn’t have to take the subway and walk in heels all this way, I greet a few other arriving guests and make my way into Rose’s house.

They live in a gorgeous brownstone on the Upper East Side, and although Hux does all right for himself as a lawyer, his family has a bit of money, otherwise, he'd never be able to afford to live here. I think Rose told me he inherited the place from his late mother’s uncle or something.

Anyhow. She’s got the whole place decked out with lights and baubles and a huge tree in the living room window, which can be seen from the street.

It’s very festive.

Everything looks so sparkly and celebratory, and it reminds me again of how far she’s come.

_Good for you, Rose._

_And, Finn, too._

I decide then and there I refuse to be jealous of her or Finn just because they both found their princes, and I resign myself once again to the reality that lightning struck twice for our little trio, and three times is beyond hoping for. And that’s okay.

I’ll be okay.

Rose greets me at the door, but more guests are coming in behind me, so I only have time for a hasty hug after passing my threadbare coat to the coat check girl. I feel naked without my clunky bag and the weight of the gun inside.

Making my way to the bar, I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of the gun I left at home, when I see him again for the first time, it’s like a bucket of ice water tossed in my face.

He’s standing with a few other party guests, holding a glass of some kind of booze that matches the color of his eyes and chatting idly and looking exactly as I remember him.

Suave, urbane, handsome, and filthy rich.

He’s so fucking pretty it kind of makes my teeth ache to look at him. That hair alone is worth a good few minutes' consideration. Thick and gun-barrel black and falling to his broad shoulders in silky, tempting waves.

Just then, his whiskey eyes hit mine from across the room, and for a split second, I’m frozen like a deer in the sights of a hungry wolf.

_Danger. This man is dangerous._

The odd thought fades under my temporary paralysis.

I tell myself it’s because I forgot, deliberately put him from my mind after what happened in April at Rose’s wedding.

He was Hux's Best Man and I was Maid of Honor and though there was an instant attraction there, or so I thought, I had too much on my mind to fully appreciate how startlingly good-looking he is. 

And light-years out of my league, not that I want anything to do with a man right now. Especially one looking at me like he wants to eat me alive.

_Fuck._

A predictable wave of crushing embarrassment washes over me as I remember how we parted ways and just _why_ that formidable glare directed my way is entirely too hostile and my own damned fault.

Warmth spreads over my face and chest, tinting my skin red from the top of my forehead all the way to my modestly displayed cleavage.

I’m wearing the same dress from Rose’s wedding, goddammit. It's the only fancy thing I own, and while it really is lovely – all silvery and sparkly and very flattering on me, according to Rose – it will absolutely remind Benjamin fucking Solo, heir to the Skywalker Empire and off-limits billionaire, of _exactly_ what transpired the last time we spoke.

So. I can choose to say hello like a mature adult, or I can run and hide like a coward.

I’m already turning to run when he waves.

He _waves_ at me.

He doesn’t flip me the bird or offer up one of his thunderous scowls, which I distinctly remember, or even ignore me, which he has every right to do.

No, he gives me a jaunty ripple of his fingertips and a rather conceited sneer, as if he’s daring me to come over.

Internally, I sigh. Externally, my face reddens some more.

_Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck._

I wave back and lift my chin in the most non-nonchalant greeting ever given. And then I spin around and flee as if the Devil himself is on my heels, rushing upstairs before thinking better of how it might look.

From the corner of my eye, I see Finn, who didn’t miss the exchange. He excuses himself with his casual charm and follows me up the stairs.

I swear I can still feel Solo’s eyes on me, even through the walls, and I’m not sure if I want to be alone or not when Finn tails behind me into Rose’s spare bedroom.

“Peanut?” he asks, his dark eyes searching mine. “Are you okay?”

Finn was there, too, at Rose’s wedding. He didn’t see _everything_ that happened, but he definitely caught the part where I tossed my nearly full glass of wine into Ben Solo’s face after we exchanged a few heated words.

_Oh, shit, why did I even bother coming here?_

I smooth my palms over my dress and inhale. “Yes. I just…panicked. Didn't even think he might be here.”

Rose has no idea, of course, nor does Hux, I think. The _Incident_ , as I call it, happened after they left for their honeymoon and only a handful of people saw.

I glance at the dresser. There’s a lit candle on it, and I am momentarily distracted. It shouldn’t be in here unsupervised. I’ll need to remind Rose about fire hazards and–

“Rey. Hey. You can talk to me, okay?”

Finn watches me blow out the candle and waits patiently for me to say something.

But I don’t speak. So, he says, “You still feel like you’re being watched? Followed?”

I do, kind of. The feeling has eased since the deadbolt, even if the memory of Rose’s eyes crossed out on that picture will be forever burned into the back of my skull.

_She's okay, and you're okay. It's over._

Besides, I’m pretty sure Plutt was behind it. And nothing else has happened. And I have the gun, or at least I will again, as soon as I’m back home.

“I’ve been having the nightmares again,” I say instead. It isn’t a lie. They came back in full force two nights ago. “Finn. I don’t know if I can take it anymore. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Finn knows more about me than anyone else alive. He knows why I never talk about my past, ever, and why the nightmares haunt me so.

I was found when I was four, and I didn’t speak until I was almost six.

We met when we were kids. Both of us fresh to the foster system. 

I had a lot of trouble adjusting. When I was moved into a new foster home, I acted out and picked a fight with Finn, who was already living there. Somehow we ended up best friends, but the nightmares came every night, and eventually, they were too disruptive to most of the families I stayed with.

For years, I was sent to visit a never-ending stream of social workers and counselors and therapists and adults who thought they were helping but who never took me seriously. They just couldn't understand how terrifying and debilitating the bad dreams were. _Are_.

Finn is the only person who ever believed me.

We grew up in a small town upstate and managed to get fostered together for a few years – practically unheard of in the system. Even after we were split up, we still ended up going to junior high and high school together. It wasn't bad. It could have been so much worse.

And when Rosie joined us, well, things got even better.

“Rey?” Rose pops her head in. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, Rose. Shit. Yes, you shouldn’t be in here worrying about me when you have a house full of guests.”

I force a smile, and her eyes spark with lively interest as she picks up on the somber undertones between me and Finn. She slips inside.

“Yes, I do have to be in here. What’s wrong?”

“I just…I…” I falter and look at Finn. Rose doesn’t know about the _Incident_ at her wedding reception, and I don’t want to explain now. “You shouldn’t have lit candles burning out of sight.”

She frowns, and Finn reassures her, “It’s all right, I think it’s just been a while since Peanut’s been to a grown-up party, and she was worried about her dress.”

Rose smiles. “Well, it still looks fucking fantastic on you. Now get your butt downstairs and start drinking. Ben Solo brought a case of Chateau Naboo, and that shit is fucking expensive. And you’re drinking for two now.”

She winks, and Finn lights up, and even I crack a grin when he exclaims, “What? Rosie, are you serious? I’m gonna be an uncle?”

“Yes, and shut up. I haven’t told Armie, yet.”

He scoops her into a bear hug and she giggles, then glances over to me and pulls me into the hug, too.

“Remember, guys, we’re the Three Musketeers, no matter what. Okay?”

We’ve been the Three Musketeers since tenth grade.

I let out a shaky breath and calm my nerves. My shit can wait. This isn’t my night. This is Rose’s.

“Okay.”

It’s a standing party, so tall tables are set around the living room, with a large buffet in the dining room and a bar set up by the fireplace. I head for the catered buffet, eager to eat something that didn't come out of my cooler. The food all looks super fancy, and part of me wants to scamper back to the kitchen for a pastrami sandwich. However, I have a feeling the caterers have taken over, and I don't want to get in their way.

Though this is a fairly casual party, with Christmas music in the background and guests mingling and munching and drinking and even a bit of dancing, I’m not feeling terribly festive. But I force a smile on my face and keep a wary eye out for _him_. It's easy to tell where he is since he's taller than most of the people here. 

Rose flits around from group to group, as any good hostess does, and I hang near Finn and Poe. Poe gives me a low wolf-whistle that draws the attention of everyone within ten feet and I want to smack him for it. But then he sweeps me into a hug and plants an enthusiastic kiss on my cheek, and he’s just so damned good-looking and charismatic I instantly forgive him.

“I can see why Finn fell for you, I guess,” I admit, and he barks another attention-grabbing laugh. This time the nearby guests are staring at his dark, tousled curls and striking olive complexion and gorgeous, deep-set eyes. He shoots me a roguish grin, and I shake my head, giving up.

I’m not sure who’s prettier between him or Finn, to be honest, but if anyone can charm the shoes off someone with a single flash of his teeth, it’s Poe Dameron.

Oblivious to what an attractive couple they make, the pair of them have taken up a conversation that sounds decidedly sportsy, which I have no interest in.

Rose sidles up holding a glass of something sparkly. Astonished, I take her glass and taste it with a mock suspicious frown.

Shaking her head she mutters, “It’s sparkling water with a touch of apple juice. The bartender swears nobody will know by the look of it.”

“Ugh.” I hand her flute back and take a sip from my own glass to wash away the taste. “I suppose you can’t give away your big news until the time is right.”

“You still look…upset.” Her warm brown eyes gleam with omniscience. “If you aren’t feeling up to staying, I’ll understand, Rey. Do you want me to call a cab?”

She’s offering me an out, not ordering me to leave, and I love her for being so understanding.

“I _want_ to stay. I want to see old Hux’s face when you break the news,” I insist. “Though maybe I need a time out. I’m going to go find Beebee.”

“I think he’s hiding in the library,” Rose says, already scanning the crowd. I scan with her. I don’t see Solo anywhere, thank God, so I decide to make a break for it while I can.

I weave through the other guests, keeping one eye out for my nemesis, and dip into the darkened library, closing the door softly behind me. The fire in the hearth lends an eerie glow as it is the room’s only light. Despite this, it’s a few degrees cooler in here, since it isn’t packed with people.

“Beebee? Kitty kitty!” I call out quietly. 

“This is a very friendly cat.”

That honeyed baritone is quite recognizable, and my stomach drops to my feet.

 _Shit_.

As an icebreaker, it’s not bad. Instead of running out the door like I want to do, I move farther into the room.

It’s _him_ , sitting on a leather sofa at the far end of the room, obscured in shadows and drinking scotch and looking like a goddamned sultan just lounging there.

“Friendly?” I retort. “Beebee doesn’t like strange people at all.”

“ _Am_ I strange?”

“Maybe.” I glance to Beebee, and then back to the closed French doors. “Did you come in here to be alone? I can leave.”

“Please don’t. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened all night.” I bristle at the vague insult to Rose’s party. Clearly, it isn’t up to his usual hoity-toity standards.

_No need to be a high-and-mighty asshole just because we aren't exciting enough for you._

“I’m sure a fete like this isn’t what you’re used to.” The venom in my tones is overdone. He’s not done a damned thing to deserve my ire. And just because I seem to be on edge around him…it’s not his fault. I try again.

“I, um, I think I owe you an apology for…”

His pretty mouth curves into a half-grin and he lifts a brow, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

“I’m sorry I did what I did at the wedding. I was…really upset about something else, and I took it out on you.”

He tilts his head, one long arm stretched down to scratch Beebee’s favorite spot between his ears. Beebee, the traitor, arches and purrs and doesn’t budge an inch, even though he has yet to come over and say hello to me.

I scowl at the sight of Solo’s long fingers ruffling through my cat’s fur.

Ugh. Why does my stomach feel like a million butterflies?

“How on earth are you doing that?” I grumble. “That cat is still half-feral.”

His perusal turns penetrating, almost predatory, and I cannot shake the aura of danger. My heart leaps in my chest. I think I’m not used to being the sole object of someone’s focus unless it’s Canady leering at me. Or Plutt.

A knot of anxiety forms in the pit of my stomach.

It’s just been a while since I’ve been alone with a stranger, is all.

Solo gives me a minute then utters softly, “I think I have a way with them.”

“What?” I’m so distracted by the way his eyes linger on mine, hovering, too intimate for my total comfort, even if not totally disgusting the way Plutt’s are or infuriating like Canady’s tend to be.

“Feral creatures. You have to go gradually with them. Wait until they're ready. Get them to trust you, first.”

“Oh?”

“Just takes patience, is all.”

I press my lips together, suddenly questioning if he’s talking about the cat anymore and not sure how I feel about being referred to as feral.

I could leave. But…fleeing his presence twice in one night would only confirm I’m a coward.

In lieu of a reply, I take an enormous sip of Chateau Naboo. It’s really good. I overheard someone mention it goes for about two thousand dollars a bottle.

Fuck Ben Solo and his fucking money.

I plop onto the opposite loveseat with as much hauteur as I can muster – which isn’t much – and arm myself with the prickly defensiveness I usually keep ready for snooty clients at the law firm.

Taking another fortifying sip of wine, I wait for him to tear into me for humiliating him or for his dry-cleaning bill or _something_. But he just observes me. Like he’s waiting.

I’m horrible at small talk, but since I cannot bear his smoldering silence much longer, I give it a shot.

“So. What have you been up to since April?”

Amused, his teeth glint white, and his eyes crinkle into little squints at the corners, and it does odd things to my pulse.

“This and that. Hux says you’ve been distracted at work.”

“What?” I cry. _That motherfucker_. “He’s been talking about me? To you?”

“Not really. He just mentioned it in passing and I wanted to see your reaction.” His gaze drops to my nearly empty glass. “Tell you what,” he says in more conciliatory tones. “If you will forgive my unbearably rude comment and allow me to refresh your drink, I’ll stop being such an asshole.”

 _Oh_.

His offer sort of takes the wind out of my sails, and before I know it, I reply, “Fine.”

He stands, and I refuse to crane my neck to look up at him. Shit, I forgot how tall he is.

Instead of acknowledging him, I call lightly to Beebee who finally saunters over as Solo leaves.

Fuming, I pet my cat and mutter curses under my breath about domineering assholes and I wonder if he plans on coming back.

But he does come back, and much faster than I expected, just as the clock on the mantel chimes midnight.

He gracefully exchanges my empty glass with a full one, setting the empty flute on the nearby side table before resuming his original seat and lifting his glass of scotch in a mock salute.

“Merry Christmas.”

That’s right. It’s Christmas, as of five minutes ago. Rose’s announcement will be soon. I will need to listen for it.

Solo seems content to lean back and survey me and Beebee and sip his scotch.

I try not to squirm under that probing stare, but damn. He needs to ease up on the intensity a few notches.

“My therapist tells me I’m a bit of a bulldozer, personality-wise.”

Maybe the bubbles from the champagne are finally hitting, but his bland statement is so accurate, I giggle.

“She says it comes from living like a temperamental, eighty-year-old curmudgeon with too much time and money on my hands and no useful outlet for my pent-up…energy.”

I laugh again and tickle Beebee’s fur. There’s no way this man’s virile, broad-shouldered frame would ever be mistaken for an octogenarian’s, although temperamental curmudgeon might be closer to accurate.

“You have a therapist?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

 _No,_ I think. I can barely afford a MetroCard let alone therapy, though God knows I need it.

His head cocks to the side and again I have the strangest feeling he’s scanning me, silently probing my thoughts and reading them all too correctly. “She’s very good. I can give you her name. If you want.”

I snort to cover up the fact that I almost just blurted out how fucking poor I am.

Apparently encouraged, Solo sits up and rests his elbows on his knees, swirling his scotch in its glass. I feel a different sort of heat creep over my face.

Serenely, he regards me with a calculating, almost wolfish perusal.

I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, looking at me like this, to keep me off balance. To punish me for what I did all those months ago. 

Or maybe it’s the wine. I’m not used to drinking, and I can feel a buzz coming on, a loosening of inhibition.

“This…is some very good hooch,” I inform him, quaffing half the glass in one long sip.

“Thank you. It’s from the family vineyard.” Of fucking course it is.

“Why…why didn’t you say anything to Hux? About what I did? At the wedding?”

Hux doesn’t have a clue, nor does Rose. They never would have let us be under the same roof together if they’d known.

But before he can answer me, the delicate clang of silverware being tapped lightly against crystal rings in from the other room.

Rose’s announcement.

_Shit._

I stand up too quickly and my high heels wobble underfoot.

_Fuck. I’m not buzzed, I’m fucking trashed._

But Solo is right there, and I grab hold of his steely arm. Ooh, he’s as burly as I remember, solid and strong, just like he was when he walked me down the aisle.

A reckless gurgle of amusement spills out of me. My wine glass is nearly empty and I toss the rest back. He takes the empty glass and sets it next to my other empty one and his half-empty glass of scotch.

Ben shakes his head and rumbles, “Well, this is promising.”

“Wha-?”

“We’re making progress, sweetheart. At least your drink didn’t end up in my face this time.”

I laugh out loud and heads turn as we enter the living room. I know I’m being too boisterous, and I’m very tipsy, but Rose is practically glowing and I give her a little wave.

I stand next to Solo, refusing to let go of his arm since I think if I do I’m going to fall over, and I watch as Rose announces to the room at large she’s going to give Hux his Christmas present.

He looks around expectantly and a surge of jealousy hits me. I know it’s unfair, but dammit…I can't fucking help it. 

“I am going to give you your present," Rose tells him, slowly building the anticipation, "…but it’s not ready, yet.” Rose looks so happy. And I _am_ happy for her. I am.

Hux blinks at her, patently confused until, with perfect timing, Rose announces, “It’s not ready. But it _will_ be. In nine months.”

Everyone bursts into applause, but I miss Hux’s reaction since someone in front of me shifts and blocks the view. My head is spinning, and I quickly realize I am beyond drunk.

“I need to go home now,” I say to whoever can hear. 

The faintest something is rippling off Solo, and a _frisson_ snakes over my skin. The way he’s looking at me…it’s… _shivery_. 

“I’ll take you home.”

“You…are a stranger.”

Coherent words are not coming easily to my lips. Fuck. How did I let myself get so drunk? Admittedly I’m not a big drinker, mostly because it’s fucking expensive, but three glasses of wine should not put me on my ass like this.

Rose and Hux approach arm-in-arm, and I can see Rose’s eyes light with a touch of concern when she sees me.

“Congradulations, Rosie,” I slur. “And you too, I guess.” I say this last to Hux with a bit of daring. But he only smiles and pulls Rose into his side.

“Thanks, Rey.” Ugh. He looks too happy, and I briefly wonder if any of this newfound joy will find its way to the office on Monday morning.

Doubt it.

I ignore him.

“Rosie. I drank.”

“I can see that. Maybe we should put you in the spare room.”

My eyelids don’t want to stay open. What was the alcohol content of that Chateau stuff, anyways?

“No,” I insist, a touch belligerently. “Is…fucking Chrissmas. You ‘ave…shit to do…and me too. Where’s Finn?”

“Finn and Poe left half an hour ago. Had to call it an early night.”

Right. They’re having a dinner party tomorrow. Today.

“I’m going. Home. I mean.”

“Rey…I don’t think you’re going anywhere. Honey, you are three sheets to the wind…”

“Well. I might throw up later. And you are a syncothetic, synthetic–” _Ugh, why can’t I fucking say it?_ “…you barf if I barf.” My voice is really loud. Someone snickers.

Solo appears with my coat, already wearing his own, and it is so thick and luxurious I can’t help but run a hand over his arm. _Oooh, cashmere._ The fucking thing probably costs a full term’s tuition at Jakku Community College. More, probably.

“I don’t mind taking her,” he promises. “And I have a car, just outside…with a _sober_ driver.”

Rose looks doubtful, but Hux seems eager to have me gone. I can tell. I know when I’m not wanted.

I’m sure they don’t need a third wheel in the house while they’re celebrating Rose’s happy news.

Besides. I need to get home and get to my gun.

I hiccup and cackle to myself. Everybody has someone to go home to and I have my gun.

“You’re already home,” I inform Rose. “I…wanna be at home. Like you.”

Solo helps me into my jacket, and I stumble into Rose, giving her an awkward hug. I have to really stoop since my heels are too high and she’s tiny. But I manage a reassuring, “I’ll be fine. I’m gonna help Ben.”

“Yeah…I think he is gonna help you, too, okay?”

“Merry Christmas, Rey.”

I wrinkle my nose at Hux. Why is he even talking to me?

On a whim, I kiss Rose’s cheek. She smells good. “Rose, that dinner was fucking delicious! You did a awesome job at thisss pardy.” I’m trying to figure out why that feels like a weird compliment, but she grins and looks at Ben, who looms like a huge, expensive specter.

“Let me know when she’s home safe?”

“Will do. Thank you for an utterly charming evening, and congratulations to you both. Merry Christmas.” He kisses her hand, which is so old fashioned and out of character for the version of Ben Solo who’s vaguely haunted my thoughts since April, I giggle into my fist, weaving on my feet.

Ben steadies me as he ushers me onto the porch. We’re alone for the moment.

The wintry night air stings my cheeks.

“You’ll help me, huh?”

I look dubiously at the steps leading down to the street, then back and up. He’s so tall.

“I’ll _help_ you,” I drawl. My tongue feels sluggish. Not working right. “But I have a stalker. So, you should be careful.”

“Really? A stalker?” His dark, pretty eyes pierce mine, and I think about how lovely his eyelashes are. “Does anyone know?”

I shake my head no, but it doesn’t help my balance at all. His mouth quirks and I want to tell him something, but he scoops me up before I accidentally hurtle myself down to the pavement below.

I fling my arms around his neck, and he carries me down the stairs and it’s _heaven_. I can’t remember ever being carried anywhere, ever. Not since–

_Oh. Oh, fuck._

My eyes widen in horror and I wail, “Dammit! I’m not sup-supposed to tell. Oh, _nooo_.”

The sidewalk is spinning in circles and I cling to him, steady and solid as a warm, muscly rock. I grope at his pecs, they’re so hard and _big_ and wonderful, and I need to try to sober up, so I rest my head on his cashmere covered chest.

I’m not sure how he manages it, but somehow we are in the backseat of a very nice car with leather seats and it's toasty warm and I’m in his lap.

“You can’t say. About the stalker.” I smack his arm for emphasis, and he’s looking at me so bizarrely.

“I won’t say a word,” he vows. “Fuck, you _are_ wasted, aren’t you? I don’t think you should be alone, sweetheart.”

“Neither should you,” I mumble.

“All right,” he says softly. “Your place or mine?”

God, mine’s a total embarrassment, especially right now. I’m living out of a goddamned camping cooler. I think about my hideous chipped orange Formica countertops and the general disarray, and even drunk off my ass, I know I can’t bring someone like him to my cruddy apartment. He’s too…tall and beautiful and rich and warm…and he smells _sooo_ good and…tomorrow’s Christmas and he probably has plans.

The car reaches an intersection and slides to a stop and my head swims.

I need to fucking lie down.

_“…I’m…”_

“Okay,” he whispers. He’s holding me so carefully, like he’s afraid of me, almost.

No. Not afraid.

Like he watching me. Like he expects me to snap.

The last thing I hear is his low curse as I collapse against him.

_Danger. This is a dangerous person._

_Stupid, Rey. He’s helping._

“You awake, sweetheart?” he whispers.

I don't think I am, but before I lose consciousness I wonder when he started calling me _sweetheart_.

And I wonder why I like it so much.


	7. trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry fuckin' Christmas. 
> 
> By the way, if you have any triggers regarding non-consensual behaviors of any kind, be warned. (This might not be the story for you, if that is the case.) Please, _please_ review those tags and know that when I tag shit, especially my dark shit, I'm not fucking around.

Stunning artwork by [@2ndSWRD](https://twitter.com/2ndSWRD)!

# trust

His sweet little girl is very much unconscious, and for a moment – just a moment – he considers abandoning his plan.

God, it’s beyond tempting.

She’s just _so_ lovely like this. When she isn’t fighting him, fighting what they could have.

What they _will_ have.

She sighs and burrows against him, and he kisses her hair.

The way she turns to him so instinctively tells him her subconscious has an easier time admitting the truth, even if the rest of her will take some effort.

It's all right. He doesn't mind. Money can't ever buy the truly priceless things worth having. Although it certainly helps move things in the right direction.

She snuffles and murmurs something incoherent, and a ferocious possessiveness crashes over him, unlike anything he’s felt for a very long time, even more potent than the first time they met.

If only her waking mind knew what her subliminal mind already does.

Still, he really needs to make sure she understands how foolish it is to take drinks from strangers. Not from him, obviously. But from others, surely.

And while he ought to punish her for her recent disobedience – she still has that fucking gun, he knows it – he can be generous. It is Christmas, after all.

His car carries them smoothly over the darkened city streets, made darker still when viewed through the heavily tinted windows. In the relative seclusion of the backseat, he allows a smile to cross his face while he deliberates over her awkward attempt to make peace earlier.

She apologized and he eased up and made his own self-deprecating overture, and though he'd still intended to drug the hell out of her, she'll never know how close he came - how close he is - to taking what he wants _now_ and to hell with the consequences.

But patience always pays off, as he well knows. 

Doctor Holdo was right when she accused him of having too much time and money on his hands and she _did_ call him a curmudgeon. But Holdo doesn’t know about his little pastime, and he’s sure that, while less-than curmudgeonly, his behavior of late if brought to her attention, would only provoke unwanted questions. So he must leave a great portion of his activities involving Rey out of therapy altogether.

He’d avoid it entirely, but his visits to Holdo are integral to his plans, and he’s been laying the groundwork _so_ meticulously…no, he can’t be tempted into giving in to his animal impulses just because he happens to have Rey at his mercy for now.

Of course, this doesn’t mean he can’t indulge himself, and he fully intends to.

Just a little. Nothing to trigger any alarm bells when she wakes up. Nothing she would notice.

No sex.

Not yet.

For now, though, she’s too far gone to be aware of anything he does, and he can find no reason to hold off from having a small taste, so long as he’s vigilant not to leave any evidence behind.

When they arrive at his building, he carries her inside himself, all the way from the car to the entry for his private elevator. Like Mitaka and all of his personal staff, the building’s security team is contracted to work for him, and every last sentry is on his payroll under the explicit understanding his activities are to remain strictly confidential.

He’s run a few previous trials to test their loyalties and so far they’ve been quite happy to comply, so long as he continues to pay them extravagantly. The expense is nothing compared to having the freedom to act with absolute impunity and do as he pleases.

Some things money _can_ buy.

Hefting Rey more securely into his hold, he steps into the elevator. The bellhop doesn’t blink twice at the sight of an unconscious woman in his arms, pressing the button inside the car before stepping out and leaving Ben alone with her. Finally.

_Finally._

All the way up, he devours her peaceful expression. The door slides open, silent and smooth, and his blood thrums to a singular tempo.

_Mine._

The penthouse is empty but immaculately clean and utterly quiet. No one else is around, nor will they be. He prefers the staff to visit on a strict schedule, declining to employ live-in help, with rare exceptions.

His privacy is worth the exchange of having to see to his own comforts, for the most part.

Rey remains limp and oblivious as he transports her all the way to his room and lies her on his bed. Gently, he pulls her hairpins loose and runs his fingers through a few silky strands. His heartbeat thumps erratically at the sight of her sable hair spread across his pillow, and he wonders what she will look like after she’s been thoroughly fucked in this bed, if she will sleep so peacefully after he makes it clear just how wholly she belongs to him.

Tonight…it’s what he’s been waiting for so long he almost can’t believe it.

He shrugs out of his overcoat and jacket, striding to his closet and tossing the garments carelessly inside before loosening his tie and the top buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers.

She’ll never understand the significance of these stolen moments, how precious they are, how many times his thoughts have lingered on what's about to happen.

_I’m afraid to touch you. I’m afraid…I won’t be able to control myself._

But she can’t be comfortable in those shoes, and he ought to at least take them off. And her coat, too.

With care, he takes her dainty foot in hand and unfastens the tiny strap around her ankle. The shoes and dress he recognized the minute he saw her at the party, of course. She wore them at the Hux’s wedding, and after many, many hours spent perusing her meager wardrobe, he knows this is the nicest outfit she owns.

_I’ll dress you in the finest clothes and shoes money can buy. Soon. I promise._

Her shoes he sets aside, then evaluates her winter coat.

It’s a disgrace, and the worn condition and cheap cut only emphasize her abject destitution. The plain covering can’t possibly keep her warm enough on her daily commute.

_You deserve much finer things than this. You were never destined to live so humbly._

While part of him thrills, knowing they are finally approaching the time when he can have her and surround her with the luxury she should have been raised in, another part of him knows her current impoverishment only benefits his own agenda.

Still, she’s evidently owned the damned coat for a very long time, since before he found her again, and it's apparent she hasn’t been able to afford a new one, despite the need. He might try to find a way to get her a better replacement without being too obvious about it.

New York winters are unforgivably cold and harsh.

Yet, she remains so soft and innocent.

He licks his lips and undoes the buttons on the coat, pulling it open to reveal her maid of honor gown. This, at least, he approves of, even if the quality is still far below his standards. But the color flatters her skin tone and outlines the alluring shape of her trim figure, and he knows she'll be stunningly beautiful in the _haute couture_ he'll commission for her. 

Her bosom rises and falls to the slow cadence of her breathing. She’s deeply asleep and will be for hours from the drugs he gave her.

He scowls. If only she weren’t so stubborn, so strong-willed, such drastic action would not be required.

But he knows her better than she knows herself, and he knows how necessary it is to make sure she learns to trust him first.

He’ll never have her _wholly_ until she can admit she needs him, not until she can see what they have is more than a passing affair. So he must be patient and do what must be done and set the stage for her to reach the proper conclusion on her own. And when she does, then he’ll make sure she understands there’s no getting out of it.

_I'll never let you go. Never._

Tentatively, he brushes his knuckles over the exquisite swell of pale flesh at the top of her gown.

She’s softer than he imagined, and in the semi-aroused state he’s been all night, it’s easy to let his lust slip its chain a little.

Half-terrified she’ll awaken, he traces his fingertips over the velvety skin of her décolletage, then almost hurriedly, he seats himself beside her and sits her up, pulling her arms from her coat and flinging the hateful thing aside. Her head lolls back and he drinks in the sight, wondering if she'll look like this when she’s in the throes of passion beneath him, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

 _No_ , he decides, _I'll want you to look at me._

He lifts her more, arching her back and kissing her mouth and neck until he’s unbearably hard.

_Careful, sweetheart. We can’t…not yet._

Despite this, he fumbles at the back of her gown, finding a zipper and pulling it partway down. Surely she’ll sleep more comfortably with her dress loosened, even though he knows if he removes it entirely, there’s a good chance he’ll never get it back on her.

And if she wakes up naked or with her gown too obviously out of place, he’s sure she’ll panic. Still, he can’t help but tug the top down until her chest is exposed.

A hungry moan escapes him. 

_Oh, baby, you have no idea how I want to mark you, and I will…with my mouth and fingers and teeth…I want to see it, to know–_

But suspicious marks will only alarm her for now, and so he’s ridiculously cautious as he kisses a path from her collarbone to the tender tip of her breast, unable to resist sucking a pink nipple into his mouth and rolling the tight bud over his tongue. He groans again at the texture of her, reveling in how much smaller and more gracefully formed she is in contrast to his own rougher, more brutish features.

Fascinated, he watches as her nipples pucker in the cool air. He spends countless minutes kissing her there, careful to use his tongue – no teeth – and lips, taking extra care not to scuff her delicate skin with the scrape of his whiskers.

But, damn, it feels as if he’s the one who is drugged. He pulls away and admires the way her breasts shine wet from his attentions, and when he tugs her lifeless hand to press against the heavy bulge at his groin, he gasps aloud, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me? What you’ve _done_?”

She doesn’t reply, nor will she, so he positions her arm back at her side and slides the hem of her dress up her legs.

_Just a little more. I’ve been so patient for you, sweetheart. I can’t…can’t wait._

Pushing her skirts higher, he runs his palms over the smooth warmth of her thighs, and when he finds the inevitable pair of plain cotton panties, so practical under her fancy gown, he chuckles.

He _wants_ them, wants to take this pair and keep it, a memento of this night, in many ways the start of everything, really. Recklessly he wonders what she’ll do if she wakes up to find her underwear missing.

_Fuck._

He can’t have them, not yet.

Clenching his jaw, he tugs her underwear down, just to the tops of her thighs. For a solid minute, he doesn’t move, trying to get his breathing under control while he stares and momentarily forgets he’s been beyond furious with her for the gun and the barred window and the deadbolt and _definitely_ for what happened at the wedding.

But love is strange. His rage fades and is replaced with relentless _want_. 

He strokes a shaking finger over her pubic hair, so much softer than his, and when he parts the pink flesh between her legs and teases the little nub of her clitoris until her head moves restlessly on his pillow, she moans, very lightly.

_You like that, don't you?_

Pausing, he holds his breath, so ready to unbuckle his pants and push into her slick, delicious heat, he almost, _almost_ does.

_This is insane. Do you see how crazed you’re making me? How close I am to forgetting everything just for a few seconds of pleasure?_

He shifts and bends low, making sure not to leave bruises as he pushes her thighs apart and drags the tip of his nose over her, right _there_ , and _fuck,_ the way she smells, it’s so good, he’s lost. His tongue flicks out once, twice, and then again, and he grinds his crotch into the bed until a swell of need nearly overcomes him.

A slight frown forms between her brows and he knows he’s playing with fire.

_If you catch me, oh…that wouldn’t be good at all. Will you fight me, I wonder? Or urge me to keep going?_

With a massive effort, he pulls back, though the scent of her lingers, intoxicating him. He slips a finger back between her legs and pushes it inside and his eyes flutter closed at the tight, wet pressure surrounding him.

_You are so fucking perfect. God, I am going to make you scream._

He can’t help it. His pants are already undone, and he’s already reaching into his boxers and taking her limp hand in his and wrapping it around his naked erection.

_Next time, you’ll be awake for this._

_Next time, you’ll be begging for it._

He draws her finger over the wetness dripping from the head of his cock and pushes it into her mouth. Faintly, he smiles and does it again, already lost as he reminds her this isn’t the first time she’s tasted him.

It won't be the last.

_Next time, you’ll be screaming._

_Next time I won’t stop._

**Last April –**

I’ve never been so nervous, not ever. Public speaking is not my strong suit, and yesterday’s rehearsal dinner was something of a disaster after I rebuffed the Best Man’s offer to look at my speech for the wedding reception.

Something about him disturbs me, and I can’t put my finger on it.

He’s been nothing but a total gentleman, if not a bit aloof and maybe a little snobby after Rose introduced us and instead of a “nice to meet you” or “charmed” or even a friendly “hi” he only muttered an astonished-sounding, “It _is_ you,” to which I replied, “Excuse me?”

Only then did he graciously mumble an apologetic, “Sorry. A pleasure to meet you.”

Rose looked confused, and I let it go.

But the way his golden-whiskey eyes linger on mine, all through the wedding and during the reception, like he’s trying to pry open my secrets and peer into parts of my life he has no business snooping around in…it’s disturbing.

And familiar. Almost like…like I should know him.

But that’s impossible.

Benjamin Rian Solo, spoiled billionaire and international playboy is so far out of my league he might as well live on the moon.

God knows I can’t afford to.

Maybe it’s his solicitous kindness that rubs me the wrong way, the kind of chivalry only the truly wealthy can afford. I think it's because when they make offhand comments like “it’s no trouble” or “take whatever you want” they literally mean it.

Maybe what's bothering me is the vague arrogance oozing out of his pores, irritating my natural inclination to take him down a peg or two on general principle – not everyone is born with a platinum spoon in their mouth – or perhaps it’s just his extreme sophistication that contrasts so annoyingly with my own barely groomed, hot mess of an appearance.

We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried.

That’s what’s bugging me. His kindness is just charity, only given because it costs him nothing.

And I’ve been forced to take so much charity, I’m done with it.

Maybe it’s Kaydel and Paige’s stupid fucking gossip as we all sit together at the reception and swill glass after glass of _very_ good wine. Hux is paying for it, and I intend to get my money’s worth since he refuses to give me a raise even though I’ve worked for him for well over a year.

“You should definitely try to get with him, Rey.”

It takes me a second to realize Paige, Rose’s older sister, is talking about me getting with Ben Solo, not Hux. “He looks like he’d do a magnificent job of shaking the dust off your coochie. God knows you need some dick to knock things loose in there. He looks capable.”

I blush at Paige's blunt assessment of the situation.

“He wouldn’t look twice at me, and you know it, Paige.” But just then, his dark eyes meet mine from across the reception hall. I can feel my face go from blushing to beet red.

Paige sips her wine and smirks, and Kaydel, Rose’s friend from the sandwich shop, chimes in, “Everyone knows the best man and _moh_ are supposed to hook up. I think it’s in the rules somewhere.”

“Why don’t _you_ fuck him, if you're so worried about it?” I snap.

Kaydel snorts, and I know I’m being rude, especially since she’s been in a long-term relationship for ages.

I try for sarcasm, but my voice sounds a bit weak.

“Can we not talk about my non-existent sex life, please?”

To be fair, I’ve been busy.

I’ve had a lot on my mind, not the least of which has been helping Rose move out of the apartment we’ve shared since we moved to the city. I’m really going to miss her, and after Finn met Poe last year, I feel like losing Rose is just so…so lonely.

I know I have to face it, and part of me even knows I’m probably definitely over-sensitive right now. But in being forced to confront my own solitude, I think I’ve had to psych myself out a bit, pump myself up to face the possibility of a lifetime alone.

Maybe I’m swinging a little too far in the direction of rabid independence and defensiveness, but really, can anyone blame me?

If anyone knows how quickly the world will chew up the weak and spit them out, it’s me. And I _am_ going to make it, whatever that means. I think it’s why I deliberately chose a place like New York in the first place. It’s hard, unforgiving, and merciless.

There are people everywhere, and yet sometimes it’s the loneliest place on the planet.

So, if I can make it here, I can make it anywhere, right?

And after a lifetime of relying on others, of hoping for more than the half-assed caring from people whose job it was to make sure I stayed, at a minimum, alive, or for wanting a relationship beyond the school teachers and counselors and social workers who were paid to talk to me, I figured out how to make a little family for myself.

But they found their own loves and lives, first Finn and then Rose. I guess I just learned not to take anyone for granted.

And then Ben Solo comes along with his good looks and extraordinary wealth and makes some meaningless thoughtful gesture and looks offended when I decline his help and well, how is any of it _fair_? Everything he wants has been handed to him all his life. 

And it sort of makes me want to _use_ him the way people have always used me. It seems just, maybe even fated, to take a slice of something for myself, to balance the scales even if for only a moment or two.

Solo’s gaze flickers over to mine again.

He’s _so_ intense. It’s like getting a fucking x-ray.

I don’t need that kind of intimacy in my life right now.

Although a one-nighter might not be a bad idea. He’s… _very_ pretty.

And as the night goes on, I decide sleeping with him is an excellent idea. So, I drink some more and catch the stupid bouquet and pretend to be happy that “I’m next” because I couldn’t possibly ever be happy on my own, and I wave and cheer for Rose and Hux as they run off to live the life of their dreams, and I can’t be jealous or sad because that would make me _such_ an asshole.

And Solo is still staring at me.

I decide to do something about it. After the chaos of sending off the bride and groom, he's back in his seat a few tables away. I make my way over to him, determined to get some dick out of the deal if nothing else. Paige is right, he does look like he's quite _capable_. 

“You wanna get out of here and go somewhere private?” I ask as I approach his table. People are clearing out, so I don't have to raise my voice for him to hear me.

He doesn’t answer, just cocks his head and stares, if possible, even more intently.

I clear my throat. I’m not used to being the aggressor, but how hard can this be?

I lick my lips and try again.

He’s seated, relaxed in the posture only owned by someone who is told from birth he’s superior to every person he encounters.

But I think I can chip through the ice a bit. I smile and run my finger over his shoulder in what I hope is a seductive gesture. He watches with what I can only imagine is astonishment at my boldness. My flirtation is sort of spoiled by a tipsy hiccup, but I smile encouragingly.

“We could…you know…talk.”

“Talk? In private?” He arches a brow, and it must be a move they teach in all the fancy boarding schools. I’ve only ever seen the look perfected by rich boys to simultaneously convey that universal, confused disdain they all seem to have.

It shouldn’t be this difficult to get laid. Like, seriously.

I glance over my shoulder, and Kaydel and Paige burst into giggles across the room. Kaydel sends a saucy flutter of her fingertips our way, and I swear to God I’m going to murder her when Solo catches it and frowns.

“Um,” I blurt out, drawing his scrutiny back to me. “Yeah. The girls agree we should do it. They said it's in the rules for weddings.”

Alcohol. Damn. That was way too much information, and he's not laughing at my pathetic joke. I've obviously misread the situation.

“In the rules? Is that so?” Each word is clipped short and bitten off between bared teeth.

Shit, he sounds upset. Okay, so maybe he’s one of those sensitive types who doesn’t like being the object of some well-intentioned matchmaking.

Shit. Maybe he thinks I'm gold-digging.

“I’m totally fine with a good-old-fashioned one-nighter,” I reassure him.

Something sparks behind his eyes. Something very, very frightening. It’s quickly shielded, but my inebriated senses fire up to partial alert.

"Just so we're crystal clear. You're propositioning me? For no other reason than your whore girlfriends over there have convinced you we should fuck?" 

I huff, suddenly out of breath, and he goes on. 

“Perhaps you are perfectly fine with a tawdry fling. But I, most decidedly, am _not_.” His voice has dropped into a threatening purr, and it belatedly occurs to me maybe I’ve insulted his morals or something.

Except, that’s ridiculous. He’s rich and powerful Ben Solo. I’ve seen a dozen different girls on his arm in Page Six over the past three months alone. He has no morals.

And then I realize… _oh_.

Here I am offering myself up like the bargain basement deal I clearly am, and he’s not so kindly pointing out he's too good for me.

I know I’m not a fucking supermodel, but I’m not totally unfuckable. My eyes fill with tears and my jaw gapes open. 

He sighs and yanks on my arm until I plop into the seat beside him. I’m drunk and furious and my vision is blurry. Kaydel and Paige aren’t at their table anymore.

Most of the guests have gone, and I hope Paige is around because she’s supposed to be my ride home if my plans for hot sex fall through. Which apparently, they have.

There’s an almost full glass of wine at the table in front of me and I take it, uncaring of who owned the bright fuchsia lipstick imprinting the rim of the glass ahead of me.

Solo still grips my arm, and heat crawls over my skin. His hands are so big they nearly encircle my upper arm.

So he’s rich and attractive and powerful. _And_ big.

And picky.

_Fucker._

“If you don’t wanna fuck me, then just say it to my face. I'm a big girl. I can handle it.”

His scowl darkens into a glower and he mutters under his breath, “Don’t do that, Rey. You’re so much better than this.”

He sounds utterly disgusted.

Humiliated, I bawl, “Let go of me, you fucking asshole!” I try to jerk my arm away, but I can't, so I have to wait until he loosens his hold. 

He sighs again, visibly aggravated, and glances around. Nobody gives a shit about us. A few couples linger on the dance floor, and I see the catering staff in white jackets move into the room, beginning to clear up plates and glasses in earnest now that the party is pretty much over.

Infuriated, I take a sip of wine, planning on staying put and hoping he’ll be the first to leave. I’m not running away from this pig, I decide.

“You know you’re worth more than a cheap, meaningless affair with a perfect stranger.”

And something about the _audacity_ of it, of _him_ of all people trying to shame me for being horny and wanting a simple, uncomplicated…fuck it.

“Shove your holier-than-thou fucking sermon up your fucking ass!” I stand up, shuffling back two steps before he can grab me again. “You don’t know me! No one does!”

He snarls, “Oh, but I _do_.”

Menace rolls off him and his eyes flash pure homicide, and, well, that’s when I snag my glass off the table and hurl the red contents all over him. Wine drips down his face, streaming from his gorgeous hair down into the collar of his formerly pristine tux, and it looks like blood staining the white of his shirt.

“Rey!” Finn hustles up, eyes wide and head pivoting back and forth between Solo’s murderous glare and my own defiant sneer. Solo’s jaw clamps down and his nostrils flare, and I spit, “Fuck you!” one more time for good measure.

And at the look in his eyes after that? The one that says he wants to tear me to pieces?

 _That’s_ when I fucking run.


	8. dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning that isn't really a warning. More like a reassurance: There is no sexual abuse in Rey's backstory, but there are some threats of violence and a few terrifying moments when she is a very young girl.

And yet another fantastic piece by [@2ndSWRD](https://twitter.com/2ndSWRD)!

# dream

It’s dark and I can’t move. But I have to move.

He’s looking.

I duck into the shadows.

_Little girl? Where are you? Come on out so I can see you._

_Come out or I’ll flush you out like a little sparrow._

… _shhhhh_ …

_Come out. Or I’m going to make it all burn down. You won’t like that, girl._

My fingers scrabble at something smooth and soft, not scratchy and sharp like the branches and twigs that were just underfoot.

Flickering red light pierces the shadowed darkness, and I open my mouth to scream before remembering I can’t.

It’s fire. It’s fire. It’s fire.

 _Don’t make a sound. Not one sound._ _He’ll find you, he’ll get you._

But the air goes thick and heavy, and I can’t breathe when I see him.

_He’s watching._

It’s the monster. The same one. Every time.

_Found you._

_I told you I would, and now I’m going to make you very, very sorry._

I wake up and my head hurts. My first thought, bizarrely, is today is Christmas.

My second thought is I’m in a strange bed. My dress has been unzipped, but not removed. Frantically, I try to take stock of my condition.

I think I’m okay, except for the glaring problem of not knowing where I am and a head-splitting ache over my left eye.

Oh, fucking hell, a hangover. The worst.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this terrible.

I look around through slitted eyes.

The soft light of dawn reveals thick carpet and heavy drapes pulled back to expose the morning sky.

I’m lying on soft, exquisite bedding.

The sheets I’m on probably cost a year’s rent.

Quiet luxury permeates everything around me and the insulated hush from the noise of the city tells me I’m very, _very_ high up in the air, buffered from the real world by at least a few dozen stories of steel and glass.

From my position in bed, I can see out the window. No, not a window. Bigger than a window.

I blink and try to focus. It’s an entire wall of glass, and I’m at the very top of the city. Golden dawn glimmers off Skywalker Tower on my left, and I crane my neck at the unobstructed view of the skyline across Central Park.

More than a few dozen stories, then. _Shit. Where am I?_

Blearily, I push the sheets away, confused.

My maid of honor dress. Not a wedding though. Rose’s party.

_Oh. Did I?_

I try to see the puzzle my brain is frantically piecing together.

Did I _really_?

Fuck. Yes, I did. I think.

_Fuck. Oh, fuck._

Confirming my suspicion, Ben Solo, looking classy as ever despite the early hour, pokes his dark head into the room. He looks fashionably tousled and wears a pair of pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt that molds to his chest in a way that would make my mouth water if it didn’t already feel like it has been scrubbed out with steel wool.

He’s carrying a glass of water in one hand and the other is palm up as if he’s holding something for my headache. Pills?

Oh, double fuck, yes, please.

This is about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole goddamn life.

He comes close and holds the glass out for me.

“Small sips first. Make sure you don’t get sick.”

I roll to the side and my hand is shaking as I guide the rim of the glass to my lips. The tepid water hits my tongue. Then it touches the back of my throat and I pull away.

_Nope. Oh, no._

A wave of nausea rolls over me and I lurch up.

Faster than I would have given him credit for, he sets the glass on the nightstand and scoops me up, rushing me into the adjoining bathroom.

Everything is a blur of pain and gagging as, for a few horrible minutes, I retch violently into his very nice, very _clean_ toilet.

My stomach cramps and heaves and I know I’m making the most god-awful, disgusting sounds as everything in me is turned inside out.

Good thing Solo doesn’t appear to be a sympathetic puker like Rose.

Suddenly I’m cold with sweat and shaking and panting. I gasp like I just sprinted twelve city blocks in heels.

I can’t stand up, and I really, really want to hide.

Fucking hell, this is bad. My head is pounding, even if my stomach feels better.

Oh, God. This is it. Karma.

Everyone was right. It’s a bitch. Humiliation swamps me, and I can’t even look at him or figure out what to do next.

And, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to be dealing with me, Rey Nobody and Human Disaster Extraordinaire, Solo doesn’t say a word.

Not one.

He just helps me rinse my mouth with some water from the tap, smoothing my sweaty hair from my forehead before lifting me again and carrying me back to bed. He props a few pillows under my head, and gives me a minute to settle in, then silently passes me the glass of water and several little pills.

I scowl at them suspiciously until he assures me, “Just a couple of aspirin. I’m guessing you have quite a headache.”

I try to keep heat from flooding my face as I take the pills and guzzle the water, rather clumsily, while he looks on. A little bit of water drizzles down my neck and I keep gulping.

The jig is up. No point trying to be elegant when I just hurled my guts out in front of the man.

“You were…in really bad shape last night. I didn’t want to leave you. I hope it’s okay I brought you here instead of taking you home.”

“How much booze did I drink?” My throat hurts and my voice sounds raw and I realize how idiotic it is for me to ask him this. As if he would know.

“I don’t know…but…” He licks his lips, drawing my attention to the ridiculously lush shape and color. Even in my current predicament, I still have eyes in my head, and there’s no missing the fact he’s fucking handsome as the Devil.

But his eyes remain solemn. “You don’t have a…problem with alcohol, do you?”

It’s a fair question, especially considering the only time he’s seen me before last night, I was raging drunk. I think this whole thing would hurt a helluva lot less if he weren’t so good-looking.

“I can see why you would think so,” I mutter. It hurts to talk, and I really just want to burrow into these sheets and never come out. “But no. I _never_ drink. I mean. I can’t afford it and…” I drift off, feeling like an idiot for bringing up my extreme poverty in light of his…the words _opulent wealth_ come to mind.

He smiles a little and it eases the intimidating vibe.

My shoes have been taken off and set next to my ratty old coat on a nearby chair that probably costs twenty times what the coat did brand new.

He notices the direction of my gaze. “I took off your shoes and your coat last night. You didn’t look terribly comfortable.”

This small kindness sends more than a small pang of guilt through my chest, not to mention another huge surge of embarrassment.

Shit, I must have blacked out. I chew on my lip and try to remember if maybe I drank more than I thought. I try to remember the party, but it’s all a blur.

Maybe I _do_ have a drinking problem.

He’s still watching me, probably wondering if I’m going to douse him with the rest of my water. Gingerly, I pass the glass back to him. The pounding in my head has eased slightly from the hydration, and I know once my aspirin kicks in I’ll feel better.

“God, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d have dumped me on my doorstep and washed your hands of me for good.”

His mouth curves into a smile and my belly tightens with something decidedly inappropriate, competing with the ache behind my eyeballs.

“You told me you have a stalker. I don’t think it would have been at all the thing to do, leaving you to fend for yourself in the condition you were in.”

Fuck, that’s right.

“It’s no big deal. I think it’s just…” I lick my lips and think about Rose’s picture. My eyes meet his and I firmly tell him, “It’s just my landlord. Being an ass.”

“Want me to kill him for you?”

At the playful light in Solo’s eyes, I burst into laughter which I immediately regret because of the shooting pain thudding into my skull. I clutch my head and chortle, “Maybe later.”

“Well,” he says softly. “I had some things sent up for you. You’ll probably feel much better if you want to…change out of your dress and freshen up a bit.”

My mouth gapes open, my headache forgotten.

_Things? Sent up? What kinds of things?_

“I…shouldn’t impose. It’s Christmas and–” And he’s staring at me again.

“It’s no trouble. I actually haven’t celebrated the holidays for a really long time. I was sort of looking forward to playing Santa Claus.”

A grin splits over my face, I can’t help it. He’s just so… _not_ a fat old man with a beard. The opposite, in fact. In his t-shirt and pajama pants, he looks younger, and without his hair combed back and his typical ruthless scowl he doesn’t look like such a…carnivore.

“You shouldn’t be so nice,” I joke. “Or you’ll never get rid of me.”

I swear whatever vibe is rolling off him is palpable, but before I can put my finger on it, he points to the bathroom.

“There are some clothes and a toothbrush for you in there. Take a shower, whatever you want. Then you should eat something to settle your stomach.”

I try to nod, but all I can do is stare at the way his hair curls over his forehead.

“What sounds good?”

He’s asking the way rich people ask, as if _literally_ whatever I want is totally an option. What sounds good? 

If I blurt out something ridiculous like “an omelet bar” would he do it? Probably.

I scoot off the bed and stand on shaky legs. “Um. You really don’t have to go to all this trouble just for me. I don’t need…”

“I know. But it’s Christmas.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” This seems like the thing to say. His mouth twitches like he just read my mind, and this time when I flee his presence, I only cross the room and close myself behind the bathroom door. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm my nerves.

The bathroom is magnificent, huge slabs of white marble, veined in silver and gold. There’s a gas fireplace set into the wall behind a stand-alone tub that looks like four people could fit inside. The fire is lit, and I give it a nervous once-over, speculating if it stays on all the time just for the hell of it or if someone turned it on just for me.

The whole room is almost as big as my apartment back in Hell’s Kitchen.

I peek inside the massive, tiled walk-in shower. A few expensive-looking bottles of hair product are already in there, and it occurs to me this is _his_ personal bathroom.

That was _his_ bed I slept in.

I try not to think about him unzipping my dress partway or taking off my shoes or my coat or how I’m going to be naked in here, his private space.

Other than my pounding headache and lingering nausea, I feel fine. Normal. He didn’t do anything creepy. He just tucked me in, and then he let me sleep off my horrendous drunkenness.

He brought me water and made sure I didn’t vomit in my hair and gave me some aspirin. He’s been a perfect gentleman.

I notice several bags on the marble countertop of the vanity spanning the length of the room. I really shouldn’t further complicate our relationship by accepting any more than the bare minimum from him.

I should leave, get back to my apartment, back to reality. But I’m so curious.

And it _is_ Christmas.

I can’t help peeking through the bags and boxes, all wrapped in scented tissue paper and then set into more bags with more tissue paper as if they contain the most precious, delicate things, and it’s all just so, _so_ lovely.

A tear springs into my eye. It’s been ages and ages since I’ve been able to afford new clothes. Most of what I wear is scavenged from the thrift store, and even those clothes are expensive since I need to maintain a certain level of professionalism for work. It’s rare when I buy “new” things and bring them home in recycled plastic grocery bags and try my best to stitch on new buttons and hem them and press them with the iron Maz lets me borrow sometimes.

I’ve never owned anything with a designer label before.

Would it be so awful if I kept these? It’s not like he’s expecting anything in return. And I might be able to put them on consignment somewhere, although they are almost too expensive to resell.

Recklessly, I open the boxes.

It’s a whole outfit, brand new. And clothes like nothing I’ve ever seen up-close before, the kind they sell in shops that wouldn’t let a girl like me through the front door to the type of woman who spends money as a hobby and wears things once or twice before giving them to the maid or the nanny when she’s tired of them.

But these could last me years if I take really good care of them.

There is a pair of well-made pants and a long-sleeved shirt of the softest cotton. And a cream cashmere sweater that will look so good on me. Every seam is perfectly stitched, every inch of fabric is thick and luxurious and soft as can be.

In another bag, I find a pair of fawn-colored winter gloves and a matching wool cap and even a scarf, tightly knit, and long enough to wrap around my neck a few times. And there are socks, too, not like any of my lumpy, misshapen ones with holes in the toes from being darned too many times.

And a pair of boots made of buttery-soft leather that look as if they will keep my feet toasty and dry against the cold city sidewalks.

The boots alone are enough to make me tear up some more.

My cheeks flush a little when I open another box and find underwear and a bra, nothing deliberately sexy, but still pretty and trimmed in lace and exactly my size and even more amazing, _a matched set_.

I don’t know if I’ve ever, _ever_ been able to afford matching underwear and a bra.

And in yet another bag I find a little kit full of luxury toiletries – creams and lotions and even a small makeup palette with little brushes that will last me for months if I scrimp – and as promised, a new toothbrush.

I realize I’m looking at _thousands_ of dollars of stuff in here. I’m looking at the cost of a new fridge and a month’s worth of food to put in it.

And then some.

I can’t keep this.

But.

But, he has _billions_. Maybe he just doesn’t realize about the real world. This stuff is nothing to him, less than crumbs from his overflowing plate.

I strip down and step into the shower and all the way through, I debate with myself.

He’s just being nice because I’m pathetic and need help and he’s definitely the bigger person here.

I was so horrible to him the last time we met. I wonder if I won’t come across as even more of a bitch if I spurn his generosity.

I have a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t like being told _no_ and more than a sneaking suspicion if I do that formidable menace of his will rear its head.

I mean, it’s not like he’s coming on to me. He never has, not even before…

Shame burns my cheeks even as I dawdle under the decadence of six different showerheads and shave my legs and scrub my hair. I am tempted to use his shampoo and save the stuff he got me for when I get home. And since I’m curious, I sniff his hair product while I’m in there and practically get high from how good it smells. Fuck.

Maybe the only thing getting in my way is my own stubborn pride.

Decision made, I finally step out of the shower and brush my teeth and hair and put on those beautiful clothes and they feel so perfect and warm and good, I resolve myself to apologize again and be extra nice and maybe eat a little something…and then politely thank him and leave before I get too attached to all of this.

And even though Rose and Finn and I always exchange presents every year since tenth grade…I think this is the best present I’ve ever, ever had.

The least I can do is say thank you. And not be a total asshole.

I stuff my dress and old underwear and all my new toiletries and things back into the shopping bags, taking care to save the tissue paper and the boxes, too, then go back out to the bedroom for my shoes and coat.

The room is empty, but the bed has been made.

Draped over the side is a stunning cashmere coat. Mesmerized, I move to touch it. It’s double-breasted and wide at the collar and belts around the waist and I know it’s meant for me.

It’s long enough to cover the tops of my legs but not boxy and ugly like my peacoat. This coat is thick and lined with satin and when I look at the label I swallow a swell of nerves. This coat alone is more expensive than the combined total of all the other stuff, boots included.

This…this is too much.

Isn’t it? Does someone like Ben Solo even know what over the top looks like to a normal person?

He did bring a twenty thousand dollar case of wine to the Hux’s party last night.

Maybe he just…doesn’t understand how normal people live.

I try not to feel too resentful over it, knowing my temper is my biggest weakness. It’s not his fault he’s rich.

I lift my old coat from the chair, stuffing my high heels into the bag alongside my dress.

The pocket buzzes, and I realize it’s my phone.

Shit. Rose is probably worried sick about me.

I go to check my messages, but to my surprise, it’s only a text from her telling me Merry Christmas and another from Finn asking if I’ll be there later today for dinner. I text them both back, but quickly, suddenly in a hurry to find Solo.

It takes a while. This place isn’t just a penthouse. It’s a fucking mansion. I wander out of his room and down a hallway opening onto a huge double staircase overlooking the living room below with another breathtaking view of the city. There’s a grand piano in the corner and it looks tiny under a chandelier the size of a subway car hanging from overhead. The ceilings must be at least thirty feet tall and every outside wall is heavy-paned glass so not one inch of the panoramic view is wasted.

His whole place is just gorgeous, all open concept and done in whites and creams with touches of bronze to warm things up a bit.

I find him in the kitchen. He’s still wearing his pajama bottoms and black t-shirt and looking like a caged tiger as he paces between the fridge and the enormous island. I stare at the island for half a minute. It’s the sort of thing they do entire magazine articles on, made from a single slab of granite I’m pretty sure would've had to be flown in by helicopter.

He’s tossing some fruit into a blender and the smell of coffee hits my nose and I forget everything else.

“Coffee.”

Solo grins and I can’t shake the impression he's a predator, even though he does nothing more sinister than grab a mug from the cabinet and ask, “Cream? Sugar?”

“Just cream,” I breathe, watching the way his pecs and biceps flex while he fixes me a cup.

Fuck. I was wrong before. _This_ is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

“Feel better?” he mutters, sliding the mug across the island. It's so big, he has to stretch to reach me, despite his height. He has morning whiskers and when he’s briefly close and focused on not spilling the coffee, I notice how his dark eyelashes are so long and curly.

My mouth goes dry and I nod. “So much better. I can’t thank you enough for…for everything. It’s just so, so nice.”

“It’s nothing.” His mouth pulls into an almost smirk.

I feel a bit gauche, so I sip my coffee and try not to moan aloud.

He takes a sip of his own coffee and his calculating golden perusal slides over my outfit and sends ripples of nerves under my skin.

I’ll never get used to this, the way his scrutiny infiltrates like he knows things about me I don’t even know. It’s so uncomfortable, I try not to visibly squirm. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it.

The coffee is divine, and I spend a minute enjoying it and trying to play it cool and not feeling like the impostor I am, clothed in luxurious things and hanging out in a penthouse with a billionaire and drinking his coffee.

“I ought to have warned you that wine packs a punch.”

“Well. I was drinking for two.” My joke is feeble, but he smiles, easing the tension some more.

“I didn’t realize Rose was pregnant, or I would have brought something she could enjoy, too. I hope it’s all right…I, uh…called her earlier and let her know you were okay.”

Ah. That’s why she wasn’t blowing up my phone, freaking out.

“Is that how you knew my size?”

“If it was, I would never admit such a thing to the lady in question.” He winks, flashing me a hint of a deep dimple slashing his cheek.

A hot stone of pure lust sinks into my gut.

Oh, fuck, he’s so sexy it’s painful, physically, actually painful.

_And he rejected you, Rey. Get over it. He’s just being nice._

I hide behind my coffee mug and mumble, “I’m sure Rose is grateful enough you took me off her hands. Thank you, by the way. For that, too.”

The coffee is good, but my appetite is coming back since the edge is finally off my headache. My stomach groans.

Taking the cue, he jumps into action. “Stay right there. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

I should head home, but I’m not in a terrible hurry to return to my place and dig something out of the cooler.

Which reminds me, I need to buy more ice.

Ugh.

Part of me wants to cry, thinking of how my rent is going up two hundred dollars a month and it’s going to ruin me.

And part of me wants to pretend it isn’t really real, that life out there beyond these heavy panes of glass, in the world where I am supposed to exist.

Hell’s Kitchen. Shitty landlord. Crappy job. A borrowed gun, loaded and tucked away in my top dresser drawer.

And let’s not forget the fucking stalker.

For a few minutes, I want to pretend those things aren’t mine.

I want to pretend _this_ is my world, with me wearing lovely clothes and smelling like a spa and watching a beautiful, wealthy man make me breakfast.

And so, I do. I pretend.

I can’t stay here forever.

But for a little while, I can dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I know I've been whipping these out pretty quick, and I wantcha to know I am wrapping up Body of Work, too, so we might have a bit of a slow down on creep for little while.
> 
> ALSO, House of The Rising Sun update: It's coming soon - I'm sure you can imagine there's a lot to tie together to finish up Part Two, and I'm writing more than one chapter at a time, so bear with me, it's just the nature of the beast with a fic like this. But I do have more on this one coming soon.
> 
> Am also hoping to take some serious time off from my day job at the beginning of September and finish up a few other WIPs, so we'll see if I'm a big fat liar or not. ;)
> 
> xoxoxo......


	9. design

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out our [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53ZiZuEK6psN8qGfB3onUY?si=PdV7ruIyRdOc33sIW3fm4Q), now on Spotify!

# design

Calling Rose Hux this morning was a calculated move, but he’s sure it will play out in his favor.

It’s always a good idea to get the best friend to endorse the relationship early on, and he knows this will save him a lot of trouble later.

And Rey has _two_ best friends, which is going to give him twice the leverage if he ever needs to use it.

He might.

She seems to be having trouble getting his point about the gun.

Either way, he’ll need to figure out how to get Finn on board, too.

But later.

For now, he prefers to focus his entire concentration on her. She’s cupping her mug of French-pressed coffee and avoiding eye contact, perched on one of the barstools at his kitchen island, which might actually be the first time the damn things have ever been used.

She’s clearly in awe of the place, and he wants her comfortable, placid. Subdued is good, but terrified is no fun at all.

It’s a delicate balance to maintain.

He's up for the task.

_Intimidated, sweetheart? Out of your comfort zone? It’s all right._

_We’ll get you nice and comfortable, don’t worry._ _You’re my little butterfly I’m about to pin, just as soon as I have you relaxed._

Her caution eases as he proceeds to make them breakfast, which he opted to do himself instead of ordering in. That, on top of the clothes and everything else, would have been coming on too strong.

And this way, he can take his time, show her he isn’t scary at all. She gives him a faint smile and sips again.

_Good girl. Right where I want you._

He inhales evenly and works with a contrived coolness, careful not to reveal his rabid anticipation, even if secretly both hands are clutching at his self-control with a white-knuckled grip.

He’s dwelled on this scenario for so long, on having her here, and she doesn’t even know she’s the princess who’s entered the dragon’s lair, a tender little morsel for the monster to devour. And he _will_ devour her.

But he'll need to hide his fangs and claws for a while yet.

_You’re so close to danger, sweetheart, so blind to how easily I could wolf you down._

He _wants_ her, wants to own her in every possible way a person can have another, hold her captive to his every whim, unresisting and obedient, so he can inspect and explore her at his leisure, whenever he wants.

So he doesn’t have to stop.

_Last night was just a taste._

_Someday soon I’m going to take whatever I want._

_And when I do…I’m going make you come so fucking hard. Spread your legs and make you scream, make you do the wickedest things._

_Make you beg._

_Make you break._

Perhaps he whisks the eggs a bit more forcefully than is strictly necessary, but some part of her must sense the direction of his thoughts when she squirms in her seat and looks around.

While the fact she’s so in sync with him is a pleasant antidote to the wildness surging just under the surface, he doesn’t want her natural apprehension to evolve into outright fear, so he pretends to ignore her restlessness and gives her a minute to sip her coffee, a luxury he knows damn well she prefers but can’t afford.

So much better than the shit Lipton she buys. Fuck, he’ll be delighted when they don’t have to drink that swill any more.

She interrupts his thoughts. “I’m sorry for monopolizing your room last night. You didn’t need to put me in there.”

“It’s nothing. And, besides, none of the other rooms were ready for a guest. I didn’t want to trouble the staff.”

“Oh. That’s…really thoughtful of you.”

_You’re so naïve, sweetie. I don’t give a flying fuck about the staff._

He pays them to work at his convenience, not theirs.

It’s all right.

She’ll learn.

He stirs the eggs in the skillet after sliding a few pieces of bread into the toaster oven. This is the extent of his culinary skill, but she doesn’t seem to be too picky. When the eggs are done, he sets a plate in front of her and, with a dramatic flourish, drapes a linen napkin across her lap.

She tenses at his nearness but keeps still for him and even murmurs a polite “thank you” before picking up her fork.

He’s briefly close enough to tell she used the toiletries he bought her, and she smells delectable.

Her acquiescence makes his blood hum pleasantly to his groin, and he clenches his jaw against a sudden urge to touch her bare skin. Like how he touched her last night.

_You have no idea what we’ve already done, where my fingers were…what I did to that sweet little mouth._

_You were so pretty. Fast asleep and oblivious._

For a minute or two, she seems content to warily eat a few bites, then a few more when he props a hip against the counter and unceremoniously digs into his own eggs while he’s standing right there in the kitchen.

His mother would tell him this uncivilized dining arrangement is vulgar, but Mother isn’t here and Rey is.

Best to work on getting her acclimated to this new environment in small increments, first.

She has an appetite, which is good. He can’t remember the last time she ate anything approximating a healthy breakfast. He knows she usually rushes out the door with a granola bar or a banana if she can afford it, and otherwise she relies on the scant goodwill of coworkers to bring donuts to the office, which are few and far between.

“So, what’s Hux like at the office? I can’t imagine he’s terribly fun,” he asks, hoping she’ll loosen up a bit over the one subject she thinks they both have in common.

“Pffft. He’s _your_ best friend. What do you think he’s like?”

“A bit of a jackass. But he means well.”

This makes her laugh, but she doesn’t jump at his invitation to disparage Hux, and he’s pleased. Not because he gives a shit about Hux’s feelings, but because it proves she’s loyal.

“What about the other one? His partner?”

Her face drops into a brief frown, and he catches it, perking up, suddenly alert.

Her work is a huge blind spot and he hates it, although from what he’s gleaned from Hux, Rey’s office environment is typical and her supervisor, Ms. Gwendoline Phasma, is strict but fair. Ben has dossiers on all of them, of course, and he checks on them regularly.

Canady has always been the one he worries about the least. The man is three decades older than Rey, married, up to his eyeballs in debt, and not at all good-looking. No threat whatsoever.

But, based on her reaction, however slight, Ben wonders if perhaps this is a mistake, discounting Canady as a concern.

“He’s been bothering you?” he asks in his softest, most non-threatening tones.

She shrugs, and he decides this won’t do at all. He’ll need to get more on Canady, dig deeper. Even as he debates the wisdom of pushing her for details, she announces, “I really ought to leave soon.”

She still has circles under her eyes. If anything, she _really_ ought to go back upstairs and get another six hours of sleep, at least.

With an iron will, he refrains from hauling her back to his room and keeping her there forever, promising himself it will happen soon enough, he only needs to work out a few more details.

His thoughts flash to the powerful sleeping pills his therapist prescribed him months and months ago. He still has almost a whole bottle of the things, even after he had to waste a bunch of them when he was figuring out the proper dosage to give Rey.

It will be so easy to drug her again now that she trusts him. She doesn’t suspect a thing about last night.

This reminder amuses him and he smiles, taking her empty plate and setting it in the sink, happy to see she ate every bite. She was hungry after being sick this morning.

He knows a hangover can be an unpleasant side effect of the drugs he gave her, especially when mixed with alcohol. But it was necessary and he hopes he won’t have to take such drastic actions in the future, although he knows he probably will.

“I’ll give you a ride home. In light of that stalker you mentioned.”

“I’m sure it’s only my landlord,” she insists. “He’s just being a creep.”

She isn’t wrong about this, and though it mollifies him to hear her openly admit she doesn’t like Plutt, he wonders if perhaps she oughtn’t to have encouraged the man so blatantly.

And this only reminds him _why_ she led Plutt on. To put a deadbolt on her door and keep him out.

_No matter. I’ll deal with him soon enough. Then you._

He fights to keep his face impassive, knowing the tighter he tries to hold her now, the faster she’ll slip through his fingers.

“Besides,” she tells him as she scoots back from the counter, “I’m not going home, anyhow. I was going to my friends’ this afternoon, and they won’t mind if I’m a little early. I can cut through the Park from here.”

Ah. She’s avoiding her apartment. That’s helpful. In fact. That’s excellent.

“You’re still getting a ride. I’m not letting you wander the city alone.”

Brief rebellion flashes in her eyes and sparks his temper, though he doesn’t let it show.

_Don’t fight me, Rey. I’ll win every time._

“I…that _really_ isn’t necessary.” She shakes her head. Stubborn girl.

“It is necessary, and it’s no trouble. I have to be at my mother’s in a little while, so I can drop you off on the way.”

She cocks a brow, skeptical, and snorts, “Leia Organa lives on the Upper _West_ Side?”

He sighs. Sometimes it’s a fucking pain in the ass to be from a famously rich family. His mother lives three blocks away in the penthouse at Skywalker Tower and everyone in Manhattan knows it.

Touching up her coffee and taking her mug, he leads her out of the kitchen into the living room. Three-quarters of it are surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass, affording a panoramic view of the city, including the skyscraper where his mother resides.

“My mother lives in that penthouse right over there.” He gestures with her mug before handing it to her. “And she’ll never forgive me if she knew I let someone in trouble walk alone through the city on Christmas Day.”

“But I’m not–!”

“Now. Tell me more about this stalker. Your landlord? Why haven't you gone to the police?”

“No,” she blurts out, obviously flummoxed by the rapid shift in conversation. “I…there’s nothing they can do. I mean. It’s honestly not that big of a deal. I can handle it.”

_Mmmh, no. I don’t fucking think you can, baby._

Jaw clenched against a wave of agonizing lust, he gives her a once-over, changing the subject again. “I’m glad your clothes fit.”

He deliberately chose a simple outfit that wouldn’t need too much in the way of alterations or be too difficult for her to care for in her meager circumstances. Once they’re together she can have all the couture she wants.

“Oh! Yes, everything fit perfectly, actually. How the hell did you get it here before I even woke up?”

He drowns the smirk that rises to the surface and instead mutters an enigmatic, “I have very resourceful staff.”

“Well, would you thank them for me?”

He is about to agree when she says, “But I can’t take the coat. It’s lovely, really it is, but it’s…”

A frown crosses his brow. “Why can’t you take it?”

“It’s too much. You’ve already done so much.”

_Not nearly as much as I’m planning to, sweetheart._

After once again evaluating the deplorable condition of that rag she was wearing last night, he’d caved to his better instincts and ordered a new coat to be brought up immediately, uncaring if it caused his staff some inconvenience or if Rey would think it too extravagant.

She’ll need to learn to drop this independent streak she has, at least with him. His voice lowers an octave, and he allows the softest trace of warning to ring through.

“But I want you to have it.”

“I…but…” she blusters.

_You already know how this ends, deep down. It’s best if you don’t fight it, baby._

“It’s below zero out there. There’s no way I’m letting you out of this building without a decent coat.”

_I should have thrown the other one down the trash chute._

“But…I can’t pay you back for it.”

_Oh. Don’t worry. You will._

“Rey. I get it. You’re a modern woman. But I think this pride of yours is clouding your common sense. Look around. I can afford it. And I wouldn’t dream of asking to be repaid for such a trivial thing. My mother didn’t raise me that way.”

Mentioning his mother again is what tips the scales. Women can never resist a man who respects the woman who gave birth to him. It’s basic psychology.

She lets out a sarcastic little snort and he wants to melt into those pretty hazel eyes.

“Well, shit. I can’t go against your mother.”

“Good.”

“So you just snap your fingers and people jump, is that how it works around here?”

Actually, yes. That is _exactly_ how it works around here.

Taking her arm, he walks her to one of the custom leather sofas and coaxes her to sit. Her cheeks warm to a charming shade of pink, and he can feel the electric tension vibrating off her.

_I wonder when was the last time someone touched you like a lover? Before me?_

It would have been before he found her again. So at least a year.

_Nobody’s ever touching you but me from now on. That’s for goddamn sure._

“You sit. Relax. Enjoy the rest of your coffee. I’m going upstairs to get dressed. And then we can go. Okay?”

He winks and before he pounces on her and gobbles her up then and there, he turns and heads for his room, confident she won’t go. She’s too polite to leave without saying a proper goodbye and at least one more _thank you_.

Making his way upstairs, he calls Mitaka to ready the car and to order his security team to stall the elevator if she gets on it without him, just in case. He hurries to dress for the day, though he won’t shower and wash away the scent of her pussy from his fingers, still just faintly there.

His mouth turns down when he finds her new coat still lying on his bed, a reminder of his baby girl’s obstinacy.

Mentally, he reviews his list of things to teach her later. First and foremost, she will need to learn not to resist him. Ever.

Best if she learns once and hard than never at all.

In fact, he knows just the thing to do. And since he had a spanking new copy of her deadbolt key delivered just this morning, he can do it any time he wants.

She doesn’t have the gun on her right now. She left it home last night.

He’ll drop her off at her friends’ place and then go take care of that little problem. And then he really should go and visit his mother, dammit.

It is Christmas, after all.

I’m facing the massive granite fireplace, admiring the enormous painting hanging above it when I hear a whisper of movement behind me.

He’s carrying that cashmere coat and my pulse quickens. He really, _really_ doesn’t like being told _no_.

“This painting is…it’s just stunning,” I say rather lamely as he approaches to stand beside me.

“Thank you. It’s a Kenobi.”

“Oh,” I breathe. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds pricey.

I try not to fidget under that dark scrutiny of his, but he smells so good. His hair isn’t damp and I don’t think he was upstairs long enough to shower, but whatever scent he’s wearing, it’s amazing.

He’s combed his hair and is now dressed in slacks and a crisp, white button-down shirt. The top couple of buttons are undone, revealing a hint of his chest, and it’s impossible not to think about his muscles and how easily he lifted me this morning and carried me around like it was nothing.

He glances at the painting and clearly, he’s spent a lot of time looking at it. Once again, I regard the slashing red brushstrokes through the various shades of black, the bursts of orange and yellow calling forth an almost fiery depiction of hell even as they are soothed by deep blues and bright whites in broad sweeps of color. I try to think of something intelligent to say, and for a minute or two I can't take my eyes off the painting.

It really should clash violently with the rest of the penthouse’s muted décor, but it is an eye-catching piece and, in my uneducated opinion, at least, rather suits the drama of the place. I kind of wonder what Poe would think, and I look for interesting things to memorize so I can tell him about it.

He'll quiz me for details as soon as he finds out I was here, I'm sure, but damn, I feel like a fish out of water.

In an awkward attempt to break the silence, I say, “I don’t know much about art. But I like this one. It feels…familiar.”

“I like it, too,” he purrs quietly. “I like to collect pretty things.”

A shiver runs through me. I can’t help but feel once again he’s conversing in double _entendres_ , even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“Speaking of which. I hope this fits all right.” He holds the cashmere coat at waist level behind me, waiting for me to slip my arms into the sleeves.

Yielding to the inevitable, my fingers tremble as I slide my arms into luxurious satin, and I can’t help the sensation of…I can’t explain it. Almost like he's marking his territory, somehow. As if my wearing this beautiful, expensive thing is acknowledging some claim he has on me.

Which is an utterly _stupid_ fucking thing to think. There's absolutely no reason for me to feel this way. None.

Until.

He lightly sweeps my hair from under the collar, and I feel a warm finger caress the back of my neck. Deliberately.

The move is too intimate, too personal. Something a lover would do. Chills dance up and down my spine, and in my confusion, I freeze.

We stand like this for a second too long, my shoulders locked in place as I stare straight ahead, blankly trying to figure out if he’s coming on to me.

“Sorry,” he mutters. I glance over my shoulder and he licks his lips and his eyes are _searing_ hot. “I’ve…been wanting to that for a long time.”

What, wanting to _touch_ me? Oh, shit. My heart is pounding so hard.

My breath catches as my belly flips over. I can’t help it. Maybe my horniness isn’t so one-sided, after all.

“I think about you. Since we met,” he admits ruefully, his charming mask back in place. “Sorry if that was…too much. I’ve been lonely, I think.”

“I just…Um. You shouldn’t feel alone.” I shift self-consciously. My words sound childish and silly and aren’t at all conveying what I mean them to. “I mean…you’re not. Alone.”

_Rey. Shut up. You sound like a stupid little girl. How the fuck would you know if he's alone or not? We hardly fucking know each other._

But instead of pointing out what an idiot I am, he just exhales, “Neither are you.”

I press my lips together, willing myself not to fall back to my default of heavy sarcasm whenever I’m wildly uncomfortable.

Absently, I stroke the sleeve of my new coat and, putting my voice firmly in the realm of friendly and not at all hot and bothered, I tell him, “Thank you. This is the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. And I might not be able to pay you back for it, but…”

I drift off. Fuck, he’s just _watching_ me the way a cat watches a mouse, I swear to God. Those amber eyes drill into mine and every thought I’ve ever had floats right out of my head.

“Give me your phone.”

“What? Why?”

The look he gives me says _why_ should be perfectly obvious. Oh. Right. He’s giving me his number.

_Oh. Fuck. Um._

Out of habit, I pat the coat pockets, having temporarily forgotten I put my phone in the pocket of my old coat. But my phone is already in the pocket of _this_ coat, and I can’t help but shake my head.

Sly bastard. He really doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Um, you press-”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles. “Mine’s just like this one.” He finds my contacts and programs his number in before handing it back. “You call me if you need something. Anything. Even if it’s just someone to talk to. Or you can delete me. If you want. But, um…”

“Yeah?” I can’t stop staring at his name.

_Ben Solo._

Two words. Seven letters. Now first in my contacts, right at the top of the _very_ short, alphabetized list of people I like to think who give a shit about me.

“…if you do? Uh, delete me? Maybe wait until I’m not watching.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have received some truly awesome art/moodies/aesthetics for this fic already, and I am in the process of getting them added here – for those who have gifted me with your beautiful stuff, thank you so much! I am very flattered and constantly wowed by everyone’s excitement and generosity and creativity. (UPDATE: I think I got all of them up, starting at Chapter One - I'll note it again next chapter, but if you have not gone back through and checked out the artwork each chapter, DEW IT.)
> 
> If I forget to include something you gifted me, please, please let me know as it is purely accidental and a result of my own scattered and disorganized MO and not anything any of you have done, I swear. 
> 
> xoxoxo!


	10. advance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve had a lot going on with this fic over the past couple of weeks, and I am super excited about it! 
> 
> Not only have I added some amazing art, moodies, and aesthetics that have been gifted for the fic, but I’ve updated the tags, so READ THEM.
> 
> Also, the chapter count is GONE (because I have a feeling this might be more than 20 chapters - I know this is NOT a shock to any of you who regularly put up with me, lol), and oh! I made a trailer for the fic, which you can check out [here](https://vimeo.com/451007655). 
> 
> It was tons of fun, and I hope you enjoy.

Absolutely PERFECT "mind"board by [@pocketsofdaisy](https://twitter.com/pocketsofdaisy)!

# advance

It was over a year ago when he finally found her again, even though he’d been looking for much, much longer.

The day he turned twenty-five, his grandfather’s trust fund became legally his, unentailed and unencumbered. Within a week of receiving access to the funds, he hired the best of the best private firms to begin his search for the girl, even though he had hardly anything to go on at the time, not even a name. When that search turned up nothing, he hired someone else.

And when the next investigation came up as empty-handed as the first, he opted to take a decidedly less-than-legal route.

People don’t just disappear for no reason. Not unless someone very influential wants them to.

Two years ago, on his thirtieth birthday, he discreetly obtained the name Fett from one of his father’s old associates.

Once he contracted Fett to help him, things proceeded much more satisfactorily, even if it still took nearly a year after that to narrow down his search to a handful of likely candidates.

Bribing officials and getting sealed records released takes time, even for men as powerful as Ben Solo, but in the end, he found three possible women who might have been the girl he was looking for.

Ben was actually debating on whether he should try to make innocuous contact with each of the three young women to ascertain if they at all remembered anything of that fateful night so many years ago.

But, to his very great surprise, he learned one of them was living right here in Manhattan.

In fact, she’d already been living in the city for a year and was working for Armitage Hux of all people, an old friend of Ben’s from boarding school and one of the few people he maintained a passing friendship with over the years.

The coincidence was unsettling, but at the time it was enough to know the girl had survived even if there wasn’t much more he could do to find out more about her unless he wanted to take the chance of being recognized.

And he really, _really_ didn’t want her to recognize him. So, he avoided the building where she worked, unsure if it was even her and unwilling to risk a casual encounter until he had a better plan. He could ask vague questions of Hux, and he did, but this yielded nothing important. Nothing helpful.

And then Hux went and fell in love with Rey Johnson’s roommate.

If this wasn’t fate stepping in to slap him across the face and wake him up, nothing was.

The odds were just too incredible, too astronomically high for it not to be some kind of sign. 

Hux proposed to Rose Tico on Valentine’s Day and the day after that Hux asked him to be Best Man at his wedding.

Rey Johnson would almost certainly be in attendance, and Ben could have easily declined, knowing he was taking a gamble to put himself in such proximity to the girl who could, if not ruin him, at least make things rather unpleasant.

But it ate away at him, knowing she was so close.

What would she be like after all this time? Would she remember him? Was she even the same little girl from all those years ago?

More often than not he found himself returning to pore over the photos Fett had given him. They all resembled each other, but the ones of Rey looked like _her_ , the girl. He needed to be sure.

As April approached, he grew more and more convinced she was the one, and after abandoning his pursuit of more information on the others, one a housewife in New Jersey and the other in and out of rehab in upstate New York, he focused the entirety of his attention on Rey.

It had to be her. But only an in-person meeting would tell him for sure. He decided it was better to be safe than sorry, knowing their meeting up close and personal would be unavoidable at the impending wedding.

Naturally, he did the only sane thing he could think of and installed the cameras in her apartment right after Rose Tico moved out. He needed to make sure Rey wouldn’t recognize him or if she did, he could at least find some leverage against her, if needed.

Until that day arrived, Ben had never been so racked with worry and fascination. The cameras only showed him so much, and he needed more, much more. He waited until the apartment was empty once again and broke in and combed through every inch of the place.

He didn’t find anything conclusive, then.

But the moment they were introduced, he knew. Even if she did not recognize him – she’d been so little when they first met, after all – he would never, _ever_ forget the shade of her hazel eyes.

He was so stunned, he blurted the first thing that came to mind.

_It is you._

And she’d stared at him as blankly as a deer in the headlights. That’s when he knew.

This was more than fate. It was destiny.

He was getting a once in a lifetime opportunity. And in a very beautiful package.

All through the rehearsal dinner, she’d been so distracted and aloof and he’d been a ball of nervous energy, manifested in what Hux mockingly refers to as his “surly old man” persona. But he couldn’t help it, as his simultaneous anxiety that she would suddenly remember him fused with the budding hope she would at least recognize the insane, palpable chemistry between them.

But she didn’t.

She snubbed his offer of help at the rehearsal dinner, and that’s when he decided he wanted her in his bed.

Walking her down the aisle the next day was when he decided he was going to marry her.

And at the reception, just when he was wondering how to proposition her, she approached him on the flimsiest of pretenses and practically demanded they fuck each other.

Her callous suggestion intrigued and infuriated him. It was perfectly obvious she would have made the same offer to anyone in his place. Which was un-fucking-acceptable, considering he knew _exactly_ who she was, even if she didn’t.

That’s when he knew he would need to teach her a few things, first. Because the day would come when he would need to explain her true identity to her. She had no clue where she came from.

But when she tossed that wine in his face?

Well.

Clearly, she had no idea who the fuck he was, either. And this would never do.

Not at all.

So, she would need to learn this, too, but he would need to ensure certain things were set in place first.

Because there is only one way this is going to go.

His way.

Sometimes obsession creeps in, seeping through the cracks like smoke, slowly suffocating a person.

And sometimes it strikes like a lightning bolt.

Fate stepped in and dropped her in his path. Not once, but twice.

He knew then what he had to do, and he knows it now, even if he’s tempted to alter his course.

A mere affair will never be enough time for him to explore what they have. A lifetime will barely be enough.

She belongs to him. He spent the better part of the past decade doing all kinds of questionable things to find her.

This is all for her own good. And she’ll forgive him.

She has to. She’s his and he’s hers.

It’s fate. Just like that night, so very long ago.

So, when she argues with him about things like carrying her own bags to the elevator or getting a ride to her friend Finn’s house, he reminds himself of the long game and that he loves her.

She’s such a fascinating combination of helpless little creature and fiercely independent woman, and he can hardly wait for the day when he can test her limits and tame her spirit. He imagines it’s going to be quite a victory when he finally convinces her to relinquish it all to him.

He follows her to the elevator after he dons his own heavy coat and gloves and plucks her bags from her hands.

_You like to learn every lesson the hard way, don’t you, sweetie? That’s all right._

_I’ll make sure this next one really sinks in._

Knowing he’ll be occupied at her place for the next little while is the only thing preventing him from knocking her unconscious and dragging her to back to bed, willing or not.

Because right now, she needs a teacher, not a sex marathon. The time for that will come soon enough.

He thinks about it during the elevator ride all the way to the lobby.

They reach his car, ready and waiting, and he waits patiently for her to give Mitaka Finn’s address. Mitaka, like the exceedingly intelligent employee he is, asks a question or two to feign the need for clarification, as if he isn’t quite familiar with the exact location.

She’ll be occupied there for most of the day, and Ben can keep an eye on her from his phone.

He wills himself not to get hard when he thinks about what else is on his phone.

Last night, there was no fucking way he was going to deny himself the opportunity to get some decent pictures of her while she was conked out, ones with better lighting for a change, not just stills from his cameras. And he posed her so prettily as if she were waiting just for him and only needed to open her eyes and whisper “please” to finish him off.

_Baby, you’ve already had me in your fucking mouth. Mmmh, you have the softest, most delicious lips._

_Next time you taste me, you’ll be looking me in the eye._

He’s been practically drooling all morning with the anticipation of looking at those pictures again, especially knowing she’s wearing the underwear he bought her.

It’s all he can do not to openly lick his chops at the thought of her wearing those panties, of how he spent the past weeks going back to look at them and stroke a finger over the soft material or trace a finger over the lace edging the cups of the matching bra, imagining her lovely pink nipples tightening under the satiny fabric.

_Fuck, I want my mouth on you._

She’s quiet on the ride, and he is sure she’s still feeling hungover. He doesn’t mind the peace, just covertly observes her looking out the passenger window and avoiding his gaze as the city passes them by.

All too soon, they arrive at her destination, and there’s a brief shuffle when she tries to exit the car on her own.

He takes the opportunity to touch her again with a gentle, restraining hand on her arm to stop her. She glances back at him, surprised until he murmurs, “Mitaka will never let me hear the end of it if you let yourself out.”

He needs to remind himself she isn’t used to such things.

“Oh. Right. The door.” She presses her lips between her teeth and her eyes squint into a sheepish smile. Less cautious. Much less wary.

Mitaka stands just outside, but he’s practically telepathic, and he gives Ben a minute before opening the door.

“You remember what I said. About calling.”

“Okay,” she breathes.

He exits the car, walking around to meet her under the awning of the building.

“Thanks again,” she murmurs, taking her bags with a shy smile. “For everything. And Merry Christmas.”

He returns her smile and recites a courteous, “Merry Christmas, Rey.”

And then he squeezes her hand ever-so-lightly before reluctantly letting her go.

_I’m about to wreak a whole lotta havoc on you, sweetheart._

_And I’m not even sorry about it._

The smoldering look in his eyes keeps me warm, all through the elevator ride to the lobby of his building, where someone in a black and red uniform opens the doors for us and wishes me a Merry Christmas.

At the first blast of wind, I am immensely grateful for the warm coat and the sweater and the scarf and boots, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like everything is going to be okay.

I still feel hungover, but the car is so warm and comfortable even if Solo’s presence seems to dominate the entire space.

I could walk forever in these boots and coat and hat and scarf, and I wonder if I ought to ask him to take me home first after all so I can drop off my things at my apartment and grab my gun before heading back up to Finn and Poe's. But they won’t mind if I show up early, and honestly, I don’t feel like going home.

I can’t stop thinking about the look in Solo’s eyes and trying to reconcile it with _exactly_ what he said at the wedding.

I can’t stop wondering if the reason he turned me down all those months ago wasn’t that he didn’t want me at all…but maybe he just didn’t want me like _that_ , drunk and brazen and acting like trash.

Men like a bit of a chase. Maybe that’s what he was trying to hint at. Only he’d been drinking too, and he just came off like an asshole because I was being such a bitch.

Or maybe this is all much less complicated than I’m making it out to be, and he’s just being a nice guy.

All too quickly we get to Finn’s and I suddenly find myself looking at him again, wishing him Merry Christmas after he helps me out of the car and passes my bags to me and maybe it’s just my imagination that I can feel the heat of his touch, even though both of us are wearing gloves.

But I can’t deny the wild fluttering in my belly, even if our parting is decidedly more anticlimactic than our meeting.

Other than a friendly _goodbye_ , that’s it, and as I make my way past the doorman of Finn’s building, I feel a surging wave of disappointment, the opposite of an adrenaline rush, maybe.

Of course, the instant Finn sees me, the adrenaline comes pouring back, especially when he catches sight of my new outfit and yells over his shoulder, “Poe! Honey? Get in here! You are gonna _want_ to see this!”

Poe saunters in as Finn hangs up my coat and sets my bags down for me and his double-take is enough to make my face turn red, even if I’m grinning ear to ear.

“Merry damn Christmas. Shit.” Finn’s eyebrows shoot up, and he spins me around, giving me a once-over before muttering, “All right. Poe, we are gonna need mimosas for this, and Rey? I want all of it, the whole story.”

Poe hustles up and spins me again, and maybe they are both being a little dramatic, but it’s kind of nice to be the center of attention for a change.

I giggle when Poe informs me, “Rose already told us you spent the night at Solo’s penthouse, and I am dying to know everything.”

“What, Rose called?”

“Like she wouldn’t tell me the _minute_ she knew?” Finn chides. “She said Solo called her this morning. Said he was quite a gentleman. So…”

Finn takes one arm and Poe takes the other and they usher me to their living room sofa.

“So?”

“…so just how much of a _gentleman_ was he?”

I laugh and shake my head, maybe just a little giddy. “I’m not saying another word until I have a mimosa in my hand.”

Poe jumps up and Finn follows behind and they are back with drinks in a ridiculously short time.

“I hope it’s okay I’m early. You two didn’t have plans before your dinner party later?”

“Are you kidding?” Poe grunts, passing me a glass. “This is it. This is the plan. Mimosas, tree, Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes’ Best of Christmas Jazz. And you. Now spill it.”

Finn interrupts with a devilish snort. “First and foremost, did you use protection?”

“God, Finn. I was trashed. We didn’t do anything. He just didn’t want to leave me home alone.”

Because of the stalker.

Which I will worry about later. I take a fortifying sip of mimosa, hoping a little hair of the dog will help and not bring my raging hangover back in full force, although it does absolutely nothing to quell the low hum of sexual tension whirring through me at the thought of doing anything remotely sexual with Ben Solo.

“So there was no hanky-panky?”

“No! He has manners!”

“Okay, but how much of that penthouse did you see? Just the guest bedroom…or…?”

I feel awkward mentioning I slept in the master bedroom, so I avoid answering specifically. “I counted five bedrooms on my way to the kitchen.”

“Only five? That penthouse has eight bedrooms, according to the architect,” Poe informs me.

"How the hell do you know that?" Finn asks, distracted.

But Poe just winks at him and asks, “What else?”

“I saw the kitchen because we ate in there. He made me eggs. And toast.”

“Good Lord. He _cooked_ for you?”

“And made coffee.”

“And where did these clothes come from?” Finn is kind enough to ask in a way that tells me he knows damned well I can’t afford what I’m wearing, or the coat, even if Poe is sort of oblivious about things like this.

“He had them ‘sent up’ whatever that means,” I reply primly, taking another sip of mimosa.

Finn and Poe exchange a look, mouthing the words “sent up” as if it’s a foreign language.

Speaking of which. “And Poe, he has a Kenobi.” I drawl the word significantly, knowing if anyone would know about art, it’s him.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit. I thought that was just a legend. Did you just _think_ it was a Kenobi or-?”

“He told me.”

“Fuck,” Poe mutters again, clearly awed. “I would give my left nut for a peek inside that penthouse.”

The conversation takes a slight turn from there, especially since I prefer to steer it away from anywhere near Poe’s nether regions.

I sip my mimosa and answer what I can about the events of last night and this morning, basking in the faint glory of Finn’s lovely Christmas tree and Poe’s questionable taste in jazz music.

The mimosa does nothing more than tickle my nose, and I relax infinitesimally under their gentle, teasing inquisition.

And a tiny part of my heart warms under the secret thrill of keeping a few pieces of my adventure to myself.

Like how Ben Solo called me _sweetheart_ and carried me around. And how I’m wearing the underwear he bought for me or at least ordered bought for me.

And how he touched me earlier when he helped me put on my new coat and told me he’s been thinking of me.

He told me to call him, and even if it was only an empty gesture, it felt unmistakably genuine. At that moment, it seemed like he really meant it.

And here, with my friends around me and the hint of romance to fantasize about later, I feel like part of a family, after all. Warm, and safe, and happy, and a bit thrilled to have been, for however a short a time, in the midst of something exciting.

And maybe…just maybe a little bit loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, YES, Body of Work has another chapter coming VERY soon, as does House of The Rising Sun. It's always harder to wrap up a story than it is to start new ones. 
> 
> Patience, my darlings. Good things come to those who wait. Promise.
> 
> If you haven't done so already, please go back through and check out the awesome artwork throughout the fic starting with chapter 1 - almost every chapter has something now, even a few by moi, and I can't begin to thank everyone for their INCREDIBLE creativity.
> 
> xx


	11. escalate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated, so please, for the love of Ben Solo go read them. ;)

Thrilling moodie by [@Love_andbalance](https://twitter.com/Love_andbalance)!

# escalate

“Benny? Ben!” His mother’s mildly scolding voice breaks into his musings, and he looks up from his phone, willing himself to put it in his pocket.

Rey is likely to be at her friends’ until late afternoon or evening, and he’s already visited her apartment and there’s nothing more he can do until she gets home.

Still, he’s feeling impatient, and he’s only been at his mother’s Christmas brunch for an hour.

“Sorry, Mother," he replies with a sheepish apology. "How abominably rude of me.”

“You kids and your phones these days.” Leia smiles, eyes twinkling. “Come and give your grandmother a kiss before she leaves.”

Padmé Amidala detaches herself from a glittering group of guests and approaches, arms outstretched.

He puts on his most dazzling smile and bends to kiss her cheek. Her eyes still snap with lively intelligence, and even for a nearly eighty-three-year-old woman, she’s vibrant with energy, if not quite tiny and somewhat fragile, at least to Ben.

“ _Nona_ ,” he croons, only partially playacting. “You’re not leaving? I’ve hardly seen you this trip.”

“Benji, you know I can’t sleep in this noisy excuse for a city. I’m going back to France and the Chateau.”

“As you say, Nona.”

“When are you going to come and visit me? You know I’m determined to see you married off before I die. I want to know you've given my diamond to your bride.”

The Naberrie Diamond is no small bequest. At seventeen carats and declared an exceptional stone by Harry Winston himself, the ring is set in platinum and valued at well over four million dollars.

“I’m still working on finding the right girl worthy of wearing it, Nona.”

“Best you hurry, Benji.” She reaches up to pinch his cheek, and he leans down so she can reach because he knows if he resists she’ll only do it harder. “None of us are getting any younger.”

She winks and pats his sternum, all charm, and he can’t even be annoyed with her over it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he chuckles.

He escorts her to the exit before reluctantly making his way back to the party and studiously avoiding the library where his father and a few of his cronies have gathered to smoke cigars. Instead, he seeks a familiar face and when he finds her he gestures a greeting with a polite lift of his glass, bracing himself when she approaches with a delighted simper on her face.

“Ben, I’m so thrilled to see you out and about and at a _family_ function, no less. If I didn’t know any better, I would think my advice must be sinking in, finally.”

“Merry Christmas, Amilyn.” Under more formal terms, he calls her Doctor Holdo, and as his therapist, she has no idea she’s been an integral part of his plans for the past eight months or so and one of the reasons he’s had to be so patient.

Establishing relationships is not something one does overnight.

She gives him another knowing smirk and chats about the event she’ll be overseeing with his mother this upcoming week. When she isn’t playing hot-shot psychologist to the upper crust of Manhattan, Amilyn Holdo organizes several charities with Ben’s mother.

The two are thick as thieves and this also benefits Ben’s agenda immensely.

“You look tired. Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

“Just last night. I was awake for most of it, actually,” he admits. “Another social event.”

Amilyn lifts a ruthlessly well-groomed eyebrow. “My, my. Look at you.”

He shakes his head, allowing her to believe his recent re-emergence into society is a result of her doing. As far as Holdo knows, he’s been living like a hermit after he abandoned casual dating around eight months ago.

He blames it on his sudden bouts of insomnia stemming from an undetermined source.

She blames it on some triggering event from his past rearing its head and reminding him of his own mortality and the fact he’s led an empty, charmed life.

On this last, she might be right, but she has no idea it was Rey’s reappearance that triggered something far more interesting than insomnia.

No, generally, he sleeps like a baby.

“What’s prompted this resurgence in socializing?” Her voice is practically oozing curiosity, and Ben expertly hides his annoyance over the presumptuous question, well used to her prodding by now.

“A girl.” He adds just the right amount of skepticism to his confession.

“Really?” Fuck the woman is nosy, and he’s tempted to snap at her. Instead, he puts his mask in place and ever-so-delicately lays the tracks that will move him and Rey into the next phase of their relationship.

Holdo is all ears as he gives her a brief, scrubbed down version of re-encountering Rey, of how he met her at the Hux wedding and of their spat and how she’s been on his mind since then.

“You never mentioned this in therapy.” She mouths the last word like it’s a dirty little secret and his smile turns slightly wolfish.

“I never thought I’d see her again. But she was at the Hux’s party last night, and I couldn’t sleep a wink for thinking about her.”

“I’ll be damned,” Holdo mutters, sipping her Bellini and eyeing the throng gathering around Leia’s grand piano.

He spies his father stepping out of the library and stifles another ripple of annoyance. Han Solo never did manage to fit into the world of wealth and privilege he married into. Even with the best tailors at his disposal, he comes across as rough around the edges, unpolished, even brash. He laughs too loudly and speaks too candidly and has barbaric table manners, though God knows Ben's mother has done her best to refine the man.

His father catches Ben watching him and gives him a gruff salute from across the room. All elegance, Ben lifts his glass in return and mutters to Holdo, “Don’t say anything to Mother, will you? About the girl? I’d hate to get her hopes up. If it turns out to be nothing.”

Amilyn presses her lips together, and she widens her eyes with just a touch too much innocence as she murmurs, “I would _never_ …”

_Liar._

This is why he started going to Holdo for therapy. And to get his hands on the sleeping pills. Definitely the sleeping pills.

And, though Holdo doesn’t know it, yet, he is prepared to blackmail the shit out of her if he needs to. She’ll write him a prescription for anything he wants and lie through her teeth about it.

She’s not the only one who understands the workings of the human mind.

"Well, Merry Christmas, Ben. And good luck. Not that you'll need it." Holdo gives him a decidedly predatory evaluation before she wanders away with a noticeable spring in her step. He knows damn well she's probably searching for Leia while her gossip is still steaming hot. Good. 

When things pick up, as they are bound to do, he is going to need both of them firmly on his side.

He excuses himself to the powder room and takes out his phone again. It will be hours yet, but he can’t wait a minute longer, and he opens the secure folder on his phone and flicks through a few pictures until he finds his favorite one.

_Yes._

_This is how I want you. Our first time together. I want it special._

_But first, you need to call me, sweetie._

He can make it through the remainder of the day only because he knows after he has met this social obligation he’ll be free for a while.

If everything goes according to plan, a few things will be conspicuously different by this time next week.

_Fuck. I don’t know if I can fucking wait a few more hours, baby._

It’s been eight months since he decided he wants her.

Eight months and he can damned well hold it just a little longer.

_Your turn, baby. Call me._

He can’t set anything else into motion until she does, figuring he has about a fifty-fifty chance of getting an actual call or text today.

She might not at all. She might be more terrified of Kylo than he guessed. Or not nearly terrified enough.

From what he’s caught of her nightmares the past couple of nights, she could be troubled about just about anything.

_No. You'll call._

Either way, he won’t be able to watch her anymore since he took the cameras down as a precaution when he was there today.

He found Plutt’s notice and acidic hate burns in his chest at the thought of her greasy landlord entering Rey’s apartment, invading their privacy.

Plutt needs to be handled and while Ben might be stymied for the moment on just how to deal with the man, he’s sure he’ll figure out something in due time.

Besides, he needs to wait to hear back on the investigation he ordered before he makes any final decisions. He didn’t like the way Rey talked about him at all, despite the fact she thinks Plutt is her stalker.

She won’t think so for long.

He flicks open the tracking app with his thumb. She’s still at Finn and Poe’s.

_You have no idea what you are about to come home to._

_Call me._

Dinner is done, and I stay a little late to help the guys clean up after the party.

I’m reluctant to leave and lingering over one last cup of cocoa before I venture out into the cold and back to my crummy life.

“Okay, tell me about the bathroom fixtures one more time,” Poe asks, settling onto the sofa next to me and propping a foot on the coffee table next to Finn's. Finn nudges him with his own foot, and I watch the small gesture a bit wistfully.

“Well, I only saw the master, and it has–”

“Hold up, hold up! The _master_?” Finn interrupts.

_Shiiiit._

I didn’t mean to mention that. I press my lips together and look guiltily up at him. I’m not even close to as tipsy as I was last night, but I think sipping champagne all day has loosened my tongue too damn much.

Beside me, Poe sits up, all energy. “When did you see the master bathroom, Rey?”

And piece by piece they coax it out of me, how I slept in Solo’s bed, how he took off my shoes and coat while I was zonked out and tucked me in and then, when I was horrendously sick this morning, how he took care of me.

“Yeah, you should’ve opened with this, baby.” Poe’s dark eyes are sparkling with pure mischief, and I shift uncomfortably.

“It’s not like that,” I insist. “He just wants to be friends.”

Poe and Finn exchange a glance, and I can practically read the thoughts transmitting through the air between them.

“I hate to break it to you, Rey, but there’s no way that man doesn’t want sex. Men don’t do all that shit unless they want something.”

“No. He was just being really nice,” I argue feebly. Poe sounds pretty confident.

Finn chimes in, “Don’t be stupid, Peanut.”

“Finn!” I smack his arm but he just lifts his eyebrows and looks at Poe to back him up.

“He's right. Rey,” Poe says. “Let me get this straight.”

“What?” I am suddenly feeling defensive.

“Okay, so you’re telling me you threw yourself at him at the wedding, he declined, and you pitched a glass of wine in his face..."

 _Finn told him about the wedding incident, dammit._ I smack Finn again, harder, and he rubs his arm with a mocking _Ow!_

"Yeah, so?"

"And he said you were too good to act like a whore–” Finn pipes in.

“–then last night, instead of dumping your drunken ass at the corner of Fuck Off and I Don’t Give a Shit, he took you to _his_ place, put you in _his_ bed, and ordered his staff – in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve – to send up a whole new outfit for you and, if my guess is right, and it is, an eight thousand dollar coat–”

“Poe! He just doesn’t know about how things work in the real world, about how much things cost for normal people.”

“I don’t think so, Rey. I work with these rich assholes all day long and believe me, they know _exactly_ how much things cost. Down to the nickel. That’s what they do. Money is the _only_ thing they know. Trust me.” 

I swallow. Oh. Shit.

Poe keeps going, on a roll, now. “–an eight _thousand_ dollar coat, let you shower in _his_ bathroom, made you breakfast and coffee and then insisted on giving you a ride over here because he didn’t want you to get cold from walking through the Park?”

I nod. I lied about the reason why he gave me a ride because I don’t want to make a big deal over Plutt stalking me. I can handle him later.

“ _And_ he calls your best friend to let her know you’re okay?”

 _Yeah._ “Yeah. But Hux is his best friend, too, so–”

“Yeah. He wants sex.”

Finn’s head bobs up and down, but he’s grinning.

I sigh. “Well. He _did_ give me his number and told me I could call him anytime.”

At this, Finn reels back and laughs, “Boom!” and Poe smirks and informs me, “Well, baby, that’s guy code. A genuine invitation for some hanky-panky. Because that man is definitely down to fuck.”

“So, now what should I do?” I whisper, finally sipping my now cold cocoa and staring at the tree, dumbfounded.

“Well…” Poe drawls. “I think you should _do_ whatever you want.”

His toe nudges Finn’s again and a flicker of jealousy twists through me.

“Rey, he’s clearly interested, but he’s put the whole ball in your court. Sounds like what you have on your hands here is a real gentleman. Not that you need to do anything about it. You don’t owe him a thing. Maybe just…get to know him a little.”

“Yeah. Take it slow, Peanut. Decide if you even like him, first.”

I hum. That sounds reasonable and not at all exciting. And the vibe I got from Solo earlier and me putting the pieces together now? No, things will move fairly quickly into the realm of sex. Ben Solo doesn’t strike me as the type to deny himself doing or getting anything he wants.

I’d have to go in with eyes wide open. An affair, some sex, some fun together, not much else. We come from different worlds and we don’t have anything in common.

It probably wouldn’t last terribly long. It probably wouldn’t look anything close to what Finn has with Poe or what Rose has with Hux.

And yet. It could be the only chance I have to do something exciting. To leave my comfort zone and have a real, live adventure.

I think about the way Solo’s eyes simmered all morning. I feel kind of stupid now that Finn and Poe pointed out the obvious.

“And if I do like him?”

“Oh, then definitely screw his brains out. Just be careful.”

“Careful?”

“Yeah. You're a smart girl. But, there might be strings attached. Guys like that tend to be a little domineering.”

_A little? Oh, Poe. You have no fucking idea._

Despite Poe’s warning, this Christmas is one of the happiest I can remember. I’m practically skipping on my way home, my shopping bags from Ben Solo in one hand – a little heavier since Finn and Poe loaded me down with tons of leftovers that will last me until the New Year’s Eve party at the office if I’m careful – and a bag of ice in the other hand. I'll need to put a plastic bin full of water on the fire escape tonight and then I'll have a brick of ice to last a few more days.

Actually, what I need to do is figure out a fridge. The coat I’m wearing could easily cover the cost of a new one.

But I can’t quite let go of the memory of Solo holding it open for me and sliding it up my arms and gently sweeping my hair from under the collar and…I exhale into my lovely scarf, my face warm and toasty in the chill air, just like the rest of me.

_It’s over and done with, Rey. You need to get back to reality._

I need to ask Phasma for half a day off sometime this week so I can go to Jakku. I need to decide how to confront Plutt about what he did without jeopardizing the roof over my head.

I need to formulate some kind of plan to increase my income so I don’t starve next month.

Despite this unpleasant train of thought, the lights of the city seem a little brighter tonight, and the wind hardly touches me through my new coat and hat and scarf and gloves.

And the boots. Oh my goodness, these boots are so wonderful.

I wonder if I can get away with wearing them in the office, and I think I can if I pair them with a suitably dressy skirt and jacket. My heart clutches a bit at the thought of what Phasma will say when she sees me wearing a thousand-dollar pair of boots, and then I realize she probably won’t even notice them once she spies my cashmere jacket hanging on the coat rack.

Part of me feels a little smug as I walk. Phasma will eat her heart out over my new coat, I’m sure, especially since it’s ten times nicer than hers.

As I enter my building, I debate the wisdom of dropping a hint that Benjamin Solo himself bought it for me. Sure, it’s catty, but Phasma is such a–

“Rey, sweetie!”

Ugh. The Landlard. I turn, pointedly hefting my bag of ice in hand, hoping he’ll notice and see I’m weighted down with all this perishable shit and in a bit of a hurry–

Nope. His beady eyes fix on mine, and I try not to feel a swarm of revulsion as he licks his fleshy lips and eyes me up and down.

"Well, you shore look nice."

I put a slight smile on my face, not as friendly as in the past, but not yet unwilling to enter his bad graces entirely. I try to remind myself to be polite as I will shortly be at his mercy when rent goes up.

“Hi, Unkar. Merry Christmas.”

He gives me the same patronizing leer he always does, only now I’m looking for something more behind it.

_Are you the one stalking me? Did you come into my apartment? Steal my underwear? Gross._

“Merry Christmas, hon. Gotta talk to you though. ‘Bout that deadbolt on yer door. I didn’t get no approval to install it, and you know permission for stuff like that is outlined in yer lease. We got new owners of the building, and they’re sticklers, or I’d let it slide.”

My heart skips a beat. _Fuck_ , he knows about the deadbolt. Did he try to get in there while I was gone?

I keep my voice even and ask a touch coldly, “How do you know I put a deadbolt on?”

His congenial smile drops into a stern sort of scowl and my belly churns with nerves.

“I was informed about it.”

“Informed?” _What is this, the Gestapo?_ “By whom?”

“Well, I don’t wanna say and get ‘im in trouble…”

Plutt drifts off, but I can guess at the answer.

 _If_ he’s telling the truth and someone really informed him and he didn’t find the deadbolt himself when he was trying to break into my place, it can only have been Mister Teedo in 3A. Teedo likes to come up to the fourth floor so he can access the clothesline from the window in the hallway because he insists the line from the third floor isn’t any good at all. But I think he just likes to snoop around and tattle on everyone in the building.

He’s the most meddlesome old man I’ve ever met and way worse than Maz. Unlike her, he’s not deaf at all and he can’t be charmed or bribed.

Believe me, I’ve tried.

“Tell Teedo to mind his own business.” I raise my voice and hope it carries all the way up three flights of stairs. Nosy old coot.

“Well, no matter. Cat's outta the bag now, and I have to report it and it’ll be comin’ out of your security deposit.”

“Fine.” I clench my jaw and turn to head upstairs.

“Wait! Rey!”

I pause, halfway to the first-floor landing. “What?”

_Calm down, Rey._

I take a few deep breaths. “This stuff is really heavy, Unkar.”

I’m only half lying. I think the remnants of my hangover are kicking back in and I really just want a hot bath.

“I’m giving ya twenty-four hours’ notice of intent. I’ll be makin’ an inspection of the apartment to make sure there aren’t no other lease violations.”

“There aren’t!” I snap.

“Well. I gotta follow the rules, sweetie. Notice is in yer mailbox.”

“I’m not your fucking sweetie,” I grumble under my breath after he disappears behind his door.

My good mood has utterly soured.

I whirl and stomp up the stairs, and I am unable to stop from hollering a loud “Fuck you, Bob!” in the direction of 3A when I hit the third-floor landing.

I hope he heard me. I don’t fucking care.

Furiously, I dig for my keys and shoulder my way into my apartment.

I dump my bags by the stupid cooler, not even bothering to turn on a light as I tear off my coat and toss it over the battered afghan covering the sofa, heading straight for the bathroom.

_Hot. Bath._

I flip the light switch and glance in the mirror out of habit before doing a double-take.

And then.

And then my whole world comes crashing to a halt.

_No. No no no._

But I don’t scream. I don’t make a single sound.

_…shhhhh…_

Instantly overcome by a surge of adrenaline strong enough to jolt me, I stumble out of the bathroom and run for the kitchen, head whipping around as I look for signs of him.

_Nobody’s here._

My stomach turns over, and I rush to the kitchen sink and wretch violently into it.

_Oh, fuck, that’s so gross._

I moan and rinse the vomit down the drain, suddenly and instantly terrified all over again.

Shaking, I walk to my dresser for my gun. I’m not letting that fucking thing out of my sight until I decide what to do.

But my gun is gone.

And my letter from Jakku is gone, too.

Of course they’re gone.

And Plutt isn’t my stalker.

It’s so much worse than that.

So much worse than I ever could have imagined.

I go back to the bathroom and stare at the message scrawled across the mirror with the lipstick he obviously stole from the vanity.

Opening the medicine cabinet, I peek inside. There’s my toothbrush and my deodorant and a box of tampons and a few other meager toiletries.

And lined up all around them are Finn’s bullets, even the ones from the box that went missing.

I know they’re from the box that went missing because the box is there, too, nestled between my moisturizer and my toothpaste. Propped behind it is my picture of me and Rose, the one with exes over her eyes and an ex over my mouth.

_Don’t make a sound. Not one sound._

Swallowing my fear, I close the door and look at the message on the mirror again.

_It’s him._

_It’s him._

The monster.

I thought he wasn’t real.

He can’t be real.

They said he wasn’t real. I’ve spent the better part of the past eighteen years convincing myself it was all a bad dream.

A nightmare.

I was wrong.

My nightmares were fucking real.

I don’t know how much time passes before I walk back out to the kitchen and find a dishrag and a bottle of dish soap.

Plutt will be here tomorrow and there’s no fucking way he can see this. No.

If I know anything, it’s how dangerous _he_ is – fuck, _fuck_ , I can’t even think the name without icy rivulets of terror dripping down my spine.

Kylo.

My hand only shakes a little as I turn on the tap and wait for the water to get hot. I squirt a healthy dollop of soap onto the rag and scrub the message from the mirror.

Only after it’s washed away do I realize I should probably call the cops.

But what am I going to say?

Hi, it’s Rey and the monster from my childhood nightmares is real and he broke into my apartment and left me a scary message?

And he took my illegal gun but left me some bullets?

What are they gonna do? It’s not like they can spare someone to watch me night and day.

_And if Kylo finds out you told…_

Kylo.

It can’t be Kylo. There’s no fucking way.

But nobody else knows that name. Not even Finn.

It was the one thing I could never, ever say out loud, not even after I started talking again.

I’ll never forget. The awful things he threatened.

_I’ll bite off your fingers one by one if you ever tell._

_If you ever tell, I’ll find you. And then I’ll make you sorry._

I try to be logical.

I must’ve let it slip to a therapist or something. Someone found my records and is coming after me.

But why?

It doesn’t make any sense.

Why me?

Why now?

Maybe he thinks I said something to someone. But I never, never did.

I fucking hate myself for this goddamn cowardly paralysis that always hits me whenever I think about it. I force myself to move.

Breathing hard, I triple check the locks on the door and the bar at the window. Everything is in place, not that it means much.

I stock the cooler with the fresh ice and my leftovers and make a cup of tea that I instantly forget about.

I could call Finn, but they are expecting a visit from the adoption agent tomorrow. They have their whole place decked out to look just perfect and Finn was sooo excited all day, and nervous.

And I can’t do it to him, stress him out with my own shit. This is literally his whole dream, having a kid of his own. There’s no fucking way I’m putting that at risk, not after everything we’ve been through together, after everything he’s gone through to get to this point in his life.

And if he - Kylo - is really real…I can’t put my friends in his sights, either.

I think about Rose. She’ll have a house full until well after the New Year – her sister is in town, and their parents. And even after they leave, she’s expecting a baby, and if Kylo goes after her…? No.

No way I’m risking that either.

He said if I ever talked, he’d come back for me. He said he would do terrible things and if I believe nothing else, I believe him just as much today as I did then.

_You thought they were just nightmares._

I rack my brain, trying to remember if I ever said anything, even a hint and I know for a fact I didn’t.

But the message said “see you soon” and I don’t have any weapons unless you count my one shitty kitchen knife.

I’m not safe here. I need to fucking leave.

He could be watching me right fucking now. Adrenaline pours like gasoline into my veins.

I don’t even have a fucking candlestick to whack someone over the head with since I’m _not_ a fan of fire and candlelit dinners have been pretty fucking few and far between while I've been scavenging a living.

_Candlelit dinners._

My gaze falls to the gorgeous coat draped over the back of the sofa.

There’s one person I could call, I guess.

One person I never would have considered in a million years, not even twenty-four hours ago.

But he has resources, _vast_ resources. He could help me.

If Kylo is real, if my nightmares are real?

My heart pounds and another wave of nausea rolls through me.

I thought it was a dream.

But Kylo is real, and I’m not safe here. All I need as a reminder are the bullets in the medicine cabinet.

A different, much nicer bathroom comes to mind. In a much _safer_ location.

Ben Solo.

Kylo would never be able to get to him. Solo is surrounded by armed security night and day. He’s powerful, and there’s no question he meant what he said this morning.

_You call me if you need something. Anything._

He won’t push. He’s a gentleman. He’ll wait for me to make the next move.

I could…oh, fuck, I can’t even believe I’m considering this, but…I _could_ use him.

He has money. Power. He could help me. If I play my cards right.

It wouldn’t even be that hard. Would it? I’d have to tread carefully not to offend that towering ego of his. Make it clear I don’t want a one-nighter.

That would piss him off all over again and then I’d be double fucked.

I push that thought to the side and before I lose my nerve, I dig out my phone and pull up his contact information.

_Are we really doing this?_

Fuck it.

What’s the worst that can happen?

With shaking fingers I make the call and hold the phone to my ear, glancing nervously around my apartment once again.

It rings and rings and just when I think it’s going to send me to voicemail and I almost disconnect the call, I hear a clipped, “Ben Solo.”

Oh, dang, he sounds so serious. Maybe mildly annoyed. Am I interrupting him?

He doesn’t know it’s me because he doesn’t have my number, I only have his.

“…um. Ben? Hi. It’s Rey. Rey Johnson?”

There’s the briefest pause and for the smallest moment in time, I wonder if I shouldn’t just end the call and run far, far away. I’m fucking crazy to think someone like him would ever want to help someone like me. There’s no way Finn and Poe were right.

And then he says, “Rey Johnson. Hey, sweetheart. You having a good Christmas so far?”

His voice warms up considerably, and I want to blurt out no, no I’m not having a good Christmas at all.

And suddenly, I can’t talk because I’m overcome with hot, devastating tears that make me choke and shudder and sob. The kind that can’t be held in because they’ll rip me in half if I try.

I stutter out a vague and very unglamorous, “…s-some-th-thing bad h-h-huh-happened…”

“What happened?” he coos, so sweet and soft it just splits my defenses right down the middle, and I start crying.

How the hell am I going to explain my hot mess of a life to him? Where do I even start?

All I can hear on the other end is a muffled curse and some brief shuffling and then Ben mutters, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

_Shit, really?_

My heartbeat kicks into a gallop, and I start bawling in earnest.

“What’s your address? Rey? It’s okay. I’m on my way. What’s your address, sweetheart?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *heavy sigh*
> 
> So, just when we think 2020 can't get worse, we lose Chadwick Boseman. It's so fucking unfair, and I don't have a whole lot of words because I can't even begin to try to define some of the grief people must be processing right now. Just know I love you all, and I'm on Twitter if anyone needs to chat. 
> 
> I know I've said it before, but dang the world needs more love right now. And definitely more kindness. None of us really know what another person might be struggling with. Let's all remember that as we enter September. 
> 
> Wear your masks, tell your people you love them, and remember to VOTE. 
> 
> Now...on to the fic...I've never had so many people do art/moodies/gifts for a story before, and frankly I am beyond flattered and overwhelmed. Do please go back through and check out all the awesome art/moodies and last chapter's "mind" board, OMG!, which was added after last update. 
> 
> So much amazing stuff and I can't even begin to express how much I love each and every one of you! 
> 
> I think we all know what's coming soon with this story, so buckle up my darlings! Shit is about to get real creepy and maybe just a little bit smutty...
> 
> xoxoxo!


	12. tempt

Stellar moodie by [@Ninijune](https://twitter.com/Ninijune2)!

# tempt

I’m not sure he heard me clearly when I sobbed my address to him over the phone, not until I hear a light but firm knock fourteen minutes later.

_“Rey?”_

It’s him.

It’s him.

“Rey!”

Louder. More insistent.

_It’s why you called him in the first place, Rey._

My hands are shaking so hard, my knife clatters to the floor when I dash to answer the door. It takes a minute for me to undo all the chains and bolts. But when I crack it open, he’s there, blocking most of the yellowy light flickering from the lone bulb in the hallway.

“You came,” I whisper, relieved and mildly embarrassed. 

But he just frowns and asks in the softest voice, “You gonna let me in, sweetheart?”

I have a brief moment of paralysis, and for some odd reason, I feel like I’m Little Red Riding Hood about to let the Big Bad Wolf inside.

Residual fear prickles the back of my neck, but I push the door open in silent invitation.

He moves inside, glancing around with what I can only assume is curiosity. For all I know, he’s never stepped foot in a place this shabby.

I lift my chin, refusing to be ashamed of my poverty and feeling overly defensive as his eyes rake the room’s rag rugs and the beat-up sofa with the crates positioned in front of it to form a coffee table of sorts. I give him a few seconds so he can take in the exposed pipes, the stained walls.

His perusal doesn’t take long. The apartment is very small.

His frown deepens and it occurs to me maybe he’s checking for threats, not just judging the cracks in the ceiling plaster or the scuffed floors or the hideous kitchenette with my cooler parked in the middle of the floor.

No, he just stands in the half-lit gloom, looking big and powerful and menacing and smelling like heaven, emanating the faintest scent of that woodsy, spicy, high-end shampoo he uses and just a touch of liquor – scotch or bourbon, most likely – and I bite my bottom lip.

The radiator lets out an ominous hiss from where it crouches under the window.

Eventually, Ben’s dark eyes land on mine and he mutters, “What happened?”

I try to figure out a way to explain.

_Found you._

_I told you I would, and now I’m going to make you very, very sorry._

Something bad happened to me, I want to say. Something horrible.

But I can’t find the words. Because I don’t know them.

I wish I could fucking remember. I think it must have been something from one of my early foster homes, maybe.

Except someone would have said something, surely. In all those endless hours with social workers and therapists, they would have said. At least, the police should have linked four-year-old me, wandering barefoot in my nightgown, with some local tragedy.

But they never did, and my appearance on the outskirts of Niima was always a mystery. By the time I could talk, everything had become so twisted around in my child’s mind, even my therapists were convinced it was just my imagination trying to find a reason why I was abandoned.

Nobody ever came for me.

I didn’t think Kylo was real.

They told me the nightmares weren’t real.

Maybe they weren’t. Maybe I’m…not right in the head.

I grew up convincing myself it was a bad dream. By the time I was in high school and tried to question it again, I had more than one therapist use words like “paranoid” and “delusional” and so I quickly learned to keep my speculations to myself. If they weren’t going to believe me and I wanted to push the issue, then the only option was going to be me ending up in an institution somewhere.

I know what happens to crazy people.

_No. No, I’m not crazy. I know what I saw._

And Kylo warned me not to tell.

_If you ever tell, I’ll find you. And then I’ll make you sorry._

He warned me then, and I think he tried to warn me again today. I need to be careful.

_And even if I cleaned the note off the mirror, Kylo was here. And there are the bullets and the picture and–_

Solo watches me like a hawk, and a knot of apprehension twists into my middle. My eyes fill with tears and I can feel my bottom lip quivering. Somehow, he seems to understand what I need, even if I don’t. With a cautious tug on my sleeve, he pulls me to him and gently enfolds me in his arms, crushing me to his chest and he just…holds me there.

I don’t know how long we stay like this, and it doesn’t matter.

I’m here, he’s here, and we stand together interminably. There isn’t any light but what spills in from the bathroom doorway and the window, and I imagine I can almost hear his heart beating.

_Found you._

I push away from Ben’s embrace and move to the middle of the room. He advances a step or two, and I back away.

He stops.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“I – I was scared and…I freaked out.”

This sounds fucking pathetic, and I sort of want to disappear into the floorboards. Verbal communication is not really my strong suit. I tend to deflect and avoid uncomfortable bluntness.

Apparently Ben Solo has no such inhibitions.

“Why were you freaked out?”

I can’t make my mouth form the words. I just can’t.

All my life, every time I’m really scared, everything in me sort of seizes up and goes dark and quiet. I have a feeling he’s not going to let me get away with turning mute every time he wants an answer.

He steps forward again, only this time I stand my ground and blurt, “My stalker was here. While I was out. Sometime between the time I left for Rose’s party yesterday and when I got home tonight.”

He nods, approving almost. But he’s not making any moves to remove his coat or to come any closer. He just waits for me to continue. When I don’t, he prompts, “Your landlord?”

I shrug. I can’t tell him about Kylo. Not yet.

“What did he do?”

“…there was a message and…some other stuff…”

Ben glances around and lifts a brow.

“In the…the medicine cabinet. In the bathroom.”

He strides to the bathroom, and I hear the creak of the mirrored cabinet door swing open. There’s a pause before he comes out, frowning and holding up the marked-up picture of me and Rose.

“This was the message?” I know he’s looking at the horrible little exes drawn over Rose’s eyes and my mouth. But he's not freaking out. His calm, methodical approach soothes me.

Only he is standing far too close again, and the way he’s looking at me–

“You believe me?” I ask.

“Of course I do.”

If anything would make me start crying again, it’s his automatic assumption I’m not lying.

Skittish, I back away, unused to…whatever this is. 

“Why did you call… _me_?” he asks. The query is a gentle caress on his tongue.

He doesn’t want to frighten me. I know this as surely as I know my own name.

_Why?_

We stare at each other and I focus on my breathing by watching the slight rise and fall of his chest.

“Why?” It’s barely a whisper. Hardly a threat.

And yet, when he prowls forward, I instinctively step back, suddenly overwhelmed by the impression he’s a predator and I’m… _dinner_.

I fumble for an answer, but here’s the thing: I can see it in his eyes. He already knows _exactly_ why I called him. He just wants me to say it out loud.

Instead of forcing the silence, he shifts to the next most pertinent question.

“Why aren’t the police here? He should be arrested for terrorizing you.”

The look on his face demands a response, and I try to give him an honest one. It’s the least he deserves for showing up here. “Even if I called them, there’s no proof. Not really. And the cops aren’t going to do a damned thing for me. I’m a nobody. I’m not–” _Rich. Powerful enough to care about_. _Important_. “–a priority.”

“What makes you think you’re a priority to me?”

Heat floods my face. It should be obvious. Isn’t this why he came running the instant I called?

I mean. This is the whole gamble, right? If Finn and Poe were really right when they said he wants me?

He steps so close we’re almost touching again and ducks his chin to capture my gaze, serpent-like, hypnotic.

Except I read somewhere that snakes don’t really hypnotize their prey at all. Snakes just have to be their regular, terrifying selves and let nature do all the work for them. No, it’s actually the prey’s fault for getting caught from freezing out of fear.

And if we’re really doing this, then I’m going to have to be a helluva lot braver than this.

“Because you want me.” I hold his gaze, but damn, it’s tough to do.

Something feral ripples out of him, and he bares his teeth, slightly. “And?”

I shuffle back a little more.

Dangerous. This man is dangerous.

In direct contradiction to this thought, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and exhales, looking me up and down from under his handsome brow.

“And you can help me?” I squeak, too intimidated to be coy.

“And?” he repeats in a soft hiss, circling back to his original question with unyielding persistence. He stalks forward, herding me back until my butt bumps against the edge of the kitchen counter.

His eyes, up close they’re whiskey shot through with butterscotch, and all those shades of gold and brown, flecked with a pretty, mossy green, should be warm but they aren't. They're cool, calculating. Opaque with some palpable, malevolent hunger. I nervously lick my lips, and his raptor stare drops to my mouth, greedy.

I called because I _want_ him. I just can’t say it out loud. Not yet.

Instead of talking, I throw myself into his arms, and if he pushes me away, then I’ll die of humiliation later, but for now, I’m on my tiptoes, digging my fingers into his lovely soft hair and he’s absolutely not shoving me away, just the opposite. A resigned chuckle rumbles out of his chest, but he drags me close and sets his lips over mine willingly enough.

He growls, “Open your mouth,” and I do it, recklessly and eagerly and wantonly, even.

His lips are so soft and firm and demanding, and he kisses me for a few glorious minutes. When he drags his head back to look at me, I whimper and clutch at his hair until he curses and shifts us, bending me over his arm and swooping in for more.

Tightening his grip, he gently but very thoroughly kisses my breath away, until there’s nothing left to inhale but him.

His mouth tastes like bourbon and heat and the hot slide of his tongue over mine sends warmth unfurling inside me until my toes curl, and I want more. I clutch at the lapel of his coat and he arches me back a little, giving me no choice but to either cling to him or break the kiss.

And my God, I never want this kiss to end, not ever. I ease myself against the steel of his arm, melting, softening, yielding, and something in him unleashes itself in response, sweeping over me like a low roll of thunder or a surging ocean wave, dark and powerful and beautiful.

He gasps, a deep, masculine sound, and I moan in return. It’s a give and take, this kiss, cinching us together in an ever-tightening snare. His breathing escalates and his tongue slips against mine and he _strokes,_ moving in an ancient, familiar rhythm. It's so very deliberate, what he's doing. On purpose. I sigh, intoxicated by this slow, languorous taking.

An overture to sex. That's what this is.

More heat spills into me, and my hands tremble, and I let him carry on kissing me while I imagine a different kind of invasion, what it might feel like to let his body have mine.

In reply, he angles his head and slides his hands around to clasp at my hips, a rhythmic lifting and grinding until we’re straining and rubbing against each other, his crotch pressing against the juncture of my thighs, tantalizing, teasing. He’s tall and his coat is heavy between us, but there’s no mistaking what he wants, no doubting what he's doing to make sure I know it.

 _Definitely down to fuck_.

It’s what I want, right?

Isn’t this why I called him?

My heart drums hard. It would be so good. I could lose myself in this, in him.

I get it now. I understand what he meant at Rose’s wedding.

“Say it,” he coaxes, kissing a hot path from my jaw to my ear before nipping my earlobe and sending wild skitters of pleasure down my spine.

He doesn’t want just a taste, a single night. He wants total surrender, wants me on his terms until he says he’s done. He’ll use me until he’s finished, full, satisfied.

And I don’t know if I can give him all that. In trade for what? Protection? Rescue?

Kylo’s message flashes through my brain and I shiver and pull back.

For half a minute, it’s just me and Ben staring each other down, while he silently waits for me to admit something I’m not sure I can. Kylo looms between us, a threat, a danger to everything I’ve ever loved.

 _But not to him_ , a small voice inside me says. _Kylo can’t touch him, or you if you’re with him._

“I think the only logical solution to all this is for you to come back to my place. Let me handle it.” His voice is husky and I want to kiss him again.

I have to be up early for work tomorrow, and I tell him so.

He sucks his cheeks in and pushes his tongue against his teeth as if he wants to argue.

His eyes flicker around the apartment then back to me and he runs a hand through his thick, ruffled hair.

“Is that a good idea? Plutt probably knows where you work, Rey. Your routine. He _definitely_ knows where you live. Probably knows who your friends are. Maybe even where they live.”

My jaw clenches. I can't just drop everything so we can go have our not-a-one-nighter.

“I have stuff I need to do…not just work.”

I’m thinking about Jakku and Plutt’s apartment inspection tomorrow and finding a new apartment as soon as I can after that. On top of my job, which I absolutely cannot afford to screw up. Phasma will lose her shit if I’m late again tomorrow.

The cooler catches my eye again. And I need to deal with that. Goddammit.

He follows my gaze and purrs, “More important stuff than staying alive?”

Even if he’s right, I harden my heart. “And what life will I have to come back to once we’re finished with…whatever this is? No job? No apartment?”

“Why am I here, then?”

“I just…need some help. Until this…stalker thing blows over.”

He lifts a brow but pulls his wallet from his pocket. “Ah. I get it. How much do you need?”

I am reminded of Poe’s earlier sage advice about rich people and money. He’s probably sensitive about it.

“Not like that.”

I’ll sell the coat if I have to so I can afford a hotel room. The irony doesn’t hit me until he hands me his credit card. 

“Take whatever you need.” He winks and my mouth goes dry and I almost second-guess myself.

I _do_ want to escape all this. I want it all to go away. To be safe. To not have terrifying problems and nosy neighbors and the endless tedium of wasting my days commuting to work for people who don’t give two shits about me, unless it’s to tell me how I fucked up and only pay me enough to keep me coming crawling back for more the next day and the next and–

I do want more. And maybe a bitter little part of me even believes I wasn’t meant to live this way.

My eyes land on the cooler and I remind myself I was planning to fill up an empty milk carton with water and set it on the fire escape so it can freeze overnight. So I’ll be able to keep my leftovers cold.

Because I can’t even afford another fucking bag of ice.

I can’t stay here. I want to go with Ben. I just can't let him take over my whole life.

_If you do this, Rey, he’ll devour you. He’ll swallow every bite and not leave a single scrap once he’s finished._

He can see my hesitation and clucks his tongue and sets me back a few inches. Just enough so I have to stand up on my own.

And somewhere in the space between primal fear and unbound lust, I find myself again.

I’m not a helpless four-year-old this time around. If some creep did something bad to me back then and I survived, then I can survive whatever he brings on next.

Kylo won’t kill me. That was never the threat. If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me back then.

This time I’ll be ready.

This time I’ll be prepared.

And I can handle Ben Solo, too.

“I need somewhere safe to stay. Until this stalker thing is taken care of.”

“You can stay with me, sweetheart. You can have anything you want.”

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He shifts closer all broad shoulders and smoldering eyes and looming presence and I almost pull away.

“Oh," he drawls, "I don't want to be nice to you _all_ of the time.”

If anything, his dark vibe has only intensified while I make my hasty decision, feeling less and less like Red Riding Hood and more like I’m bargaining my soul to the Devil, instead.

I shake my head and whisper, “I, um, have some packing to do. And stuff.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push even if the tension is thick enough to slice with a knife. 

“You pack whatever you need. I’ll send for the rest.”

I shake my head again. “No need to send for anything. I’ll just…get a few things together. But I’m coming back here. And we are not having sex tonight.”

This last ultimatum is spoken with a confidence I don't entirely feel, and I remind myself he doesn’t like being denied. Not at all. Adrenaline skips through my body, making my arms and legs tingle.

“Whatever you say, baby.”

“I’m not…I can’t just leave my whole life behind.” 

He shushes me by simply setting his hand under my jaw, wrapping his long fingers around my throat, and squeezing. Very gently. Very _intentionally_. It doesn’t hurt unless you count the wild pulse of desire that spikes into my womb.

His thumb moves to stroke over my bottom lip and I watch him as he observes the act.

“I get it. But you need to know I always get what I want, eventually.”

That’s been pretty fucking obvious so far.

“I just need to, um…I should probably hurry.” My tone is firm and dismissive and somewhat less imposing than I’m hoping for with his hand still on my throat.

For a few seconds, I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s as put out as I think he might be, even if he's doing a damned good job of covering his disappointment.

Like Poe and Finn told me. A gentleman. Only...he squeezes again and bends to kiss me. And this one isn’t soft and sweet like the last one.

This kiss is an uncontained inferno. His mouth plunders mine until I’m gasping, totally out my element. His fingers slide up to cup my jaw and pry it open and I’ve never, _ever_ been kissed like this, consumed like he wants to eat me with a spoon and lick the bowl clean. His tongue sweeps over mine, a total invasion of privacy, a demonstration of force, and I’m overwhelmed, shaking and kissing him back – or trying to – but mostly just standing there and letting him hold me by the face while he attacks my mouth until I’m dizzy.

Maybe being devoured isn’t so bad.

Finally, he pulls away, eyes glittering, lips wet, panting lightly. He gives me one last squeeze as if to emphasize his point.

 _Domineering_. I think Poe might have underestimated that part just a bit.

“Hurry up and pack your things, then.”

His mouth turns down at the corners when he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement. He rakes me with a torrid stare one more time, and I dodge around him to throw some clothes and few things into a bag, utterly distracted and half hoping he'll chase me down and finish what he started.

He closes the door and waits patiently for her to lock up while he takes in the shabby hallway and tries not to breathe too deeply. This whole place holds a vague stench of old grease and musty shoes and probably has all manner of health code violations. The runner to the stairs is worn through in places and frayed from decades of feet tromping up and down the hall. In fact, he's sure this entire shithole building needs to be condemned, and if he didn’t have other plans, he’d already have the City Health Department in here.

But Rey thinks she’s coming back, and he doesn’t want to startle her with the truth just yet.

He waits until she precedes him down the stairs before allowing a triumphant, albeit temporary smirk to slide onto his face.

Considering her obstinate temperament and miles-wide independent streak, he’s half-surprised she agreed to come with him. She must be more scared of Kylo than he realized.

Good.

But, despite his current state of rampant sexual frustration, he can’t be totally disappointed if she refuses to sleep with him tonight. She probably won't, since she’s planning on going to work in the morning. He’ll need to make arrangements to have her looked after during the day while he handles other, more salient business.

If he's honest with himself, he really doesn’t have time to dwell on seduction, not with the information he received just minutes before she called.

His investigation of Plutt led to some very interesting discoveries, and it shocked him to learn someone else is watching her too. This unexpected complication adds a layer of urgency to his plans, but he needs to stick with his strategy.

Getting her out of here is a good start. If they're being watched, then whoever it is will know she's with him and he has a world-class security team. That ought to slow them down until he can determine if his suspicions are correct.

The thrill of challenge spurs him down the stairs behind her. Despite the bags he carries, his long legs cover ground quickly, his mind already ten steps ahead as he plots the next sequence of events to derail her life.

Convincing her to make a clean break has always been the original plan.

_You just need a bit of nudging in the right direction is all. And I know just the thing._

The harder she fights him now, the sweeter her surrender will be. And she _will_ surrender.

She definitely wants him. The fire in her gaze and eager submission were unmistakable, even if she exhibited a maddening self-composure and ended things a bit too quickly for his liking.

Still, it’s best if she thinks she’s in control for now.

There’s much he still needs to arrange, even if his passion is already clawing at the door like a ravenous animal, demanding to be released.

Mitaka waits at the curb, holding the door open and taking her bags from Ben. She flashes him a dazzling smile and he senses her relief. And maybe a touch of excitement.

_My poor little girl. You were so afraid, weren’t you?_

_Not nearly as frightened as you’re going to be._

It’s best if they get this next part out of the way sooner rather than later.

He smiles and slides in beside her, half-hoping she might change her mind about the sex and make out with him on the way home.

But she sits primly in her seat, hands folded on her lap and staring out the window with slight apprehension.

She’s looking for Kylo, he realizes with amusement. Wondering if he’s watching.

_This is all for your own good, sweetheart._

He’ll need to make sure it really hurts so she learns who’s the boss once and for all.


	13. arrange

Chillingly fun moodie by [@reylographer](https://twitter.com/reylographer)!

# arrange

She stays quiet for the rest of the ride to his building, all the way to the elevator. The doors shush closed and she draws a breath. He’s hyperaware of everything about her, from the way her eyelashes flutter under his unrelenting stare to the nervous shifting of her feet once the elevator car begins to move.

_You already know how this is going to go, sweetheart. Best if you don’t fight it._

Well. Maybe just a little fight.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

She gives him a startled glance and tears sparkle on her eyelashes. “Oh. Yeah. This is all just so overwhelming.”

He sets down her bags and tugs her close, unable to hold back from this at least. Something warm and hungry loosens itself inside him when he tilts her face to his for another devouring kiss.

His poor little girl is _so_ distressed and the taste of her fear is just delicious. He can’t resist.

Tenderly, delicately, even, and in direct contradiction to his raging instincts, he sweeps a stray strand of hair from her cheek and cups his hand around her neck, caressing her jaw with his thumb until she obediently opens her hot, wet little mouth for him, so trusting and eager it makes him agonizingly hard.

With a soft groan, he backs her all the way across the elevator to bump her against the wall with a none-too-gentle shove, breathing a little more raggedly now, on the brink. She’s _letting_ him do it, totally allowing this to happen. She _wants_ it, even if she says she doesn’t.

He braces an arm against the wall, caging her in and tugging at her hair and deepening their kiss until she melts, soft and pliant and heated under his fervent onslaught.

Her hands clutch at the front of his heavy coat and he arches her back.

He slides his tongue over hers and takes her mouth just as surely as he plans on taking the rest of her later, slipping a palm over her chest and mentally cursing the fact they are both wearing far too many clothes.

Even so, she leans into his touch and the gentle curve of her breast intoxicates him. He moves his other hand to grip the back of the skull and pours every ounce of insistent thirst into his next barrage. Soon enough she’s whimpering and moaning like the eager little whore he knows she is. Just for him. He wants to eat her up, swallow her whole, revel in every sigh, every gasping moan.

_I’ll bet you can’t wait to get my cock in your mouth._

After a few very pleasurable minutes, they arrive at his floor, and he pulls back with a reluctant hum.

And to his surprise, she chuckles and pats his chest with a shaky but smug, “Nice try. But, we’re still not having sex.”

He chortles a sheepish, “Had to take a shot,” and gestures to the open doors, inviting her to precede him into the penthouse.

No need to inform her she’s already caught in his snare like a plump, juicy, little rabbit, and it’s only a matter of time before he takes a bite. And then some.

The elevator doors swish open, and I have no idea what to do next.

He’s staring with his usual too-intense scrutiny and a flurry of distinct horniness ripples through me. And I am so, _so_ tempted to just jump on him and let him carry on with what he was doing. I’m sure it would be a very informative and impressive experience. If that last kiss was any indication.

And the ones before it.

My heart hammers as he helps me out of my coat and removes his own. I try not to look at him, try not to let him see how close I am to giving in after the way he just kissed me. But I really _do_ have to go to work tomorrow, and a night of hot sex is not going to do me any favors. I need to be on my toes so I can deal with Phasma and Canady’s bullshit and Hux’s aloof, but nonetheless taxing demands.

Besides. Solo is already acting like he’s got me bagged and tagged. Like this is a done deal, a matter of time before we’re fucking.

And I haven’t _entirely_ forgotten he’s still kind of a cocky asshole and no matter how sexy he is, even if I do want him, I can’t make it _too_ easy, can I? He already gets everything he wants, according to his own declaration. A tiny, rebellious part of me wants to make him work for it, just like all those articles in Cosmo tell me I should.

And another, slightly more panicked part of me wonders just what the hell I’m getting myself into and if all this is worth the trade for what I’m escaping from.

I catch a whiff of his hair when he stoops to catch the handles of my bags from the elevator floor and sweeps past me with a friendly, “This way.”

_See you soon…_

Hmmm. I can sit at home and wait for Kylo to come and get me, or I can sit here and keep a hot, yummy-smelling rich guy from getting too handsy.

Probably a fair trade.

Swallowing my sudden nerves, I follow said guy across the gleaming marble entryway and up the double staircase with the spotless glass balustrade, back to the wing where his bedroom is.

I’m antsy, on edge. What if he _insists_? What if he tries to force me? He’s huge and in very good shape with a whole lotta really nice muscles.

I’m in pretty good shape myself, but I don’t think I could fight him off if it came down to it.

_Just like you couldn’t fight the monster from taking you away._

_No. Don’t think about that._

My stomach twists into knots all the way down the hall, and just when I think I’m going to have to put my foot down, he stops and leads me into a lovely guest room.

I wonder about his earlier comment that none of the guest rooms were ready for company, but I don’t say anything, considering he is being more than hospitable now. I mean, who knows what rich people’s idea of “ready” means? The butler didn't have a chance to leave a chocolate on the pillows?

“Bathroom’s through there, and you can help yourself to anything you want.”

I look around and take a deep breath. Like his room, this one is done in muted neutral colors and it has a gorgeous view of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s spacious and, while smaller than his room, is still very much about a million steps up from my place back in Hell’s Kitchen.

“The window locks from inside, right here,” he mutters, setting my bags on a low dresser and walking through the room to show me. “And the building has round-the-clock armed security. You’ll be safe here.”

Despite his words, a chill shivers through me. He’s still looking at me like he wants to gobble me up, and again my resistance tests me because I kind of want to let him.

But the bed looks like heaven, too, and I also want to curl up into those fluffy covers and never come out.

“I wish you’d reconsider going to work tomorrow,” he utters with a scowl.

“I…really can’t afford to lose my job. And I have to be at my apartment tomorrow at five o’clock.” For Plutt’s inspection. The crap icing on the shit cake.

“You can’t go back there, Rey.”

Part of me knows he’s making sense and if Kylo ever gets his hands on me, it will be worse than letting Plutt paw through my things without being there to make sure he behaves.

But I can’t just abandon my whole life.

“I’ll be okay. It’s only for an hour.”

“For what?”

“For an apartment inspection. There’s a new owner and I sort of broke the rules…and…” I sigh. “I don’t think my landlord is the stalker. Wait. I told you about him, right?”

His brow arches and he props a hip on my dresser, clearly not going anywhere.

He’s going to have to find out about Kylo eventually if he’s going to help me. So, I tell him part of the truth. “I think it’s someone else. Stalking me.”

“Who?”

“I…don’t know,” I lie. “But I know it isn’t my landlord. I’m positive. After tonight.”

He tilts his head, inspecting me. I feel like he wants to say something else but he just chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute before he murmurs, “You're a stubborn one, aren’t you? I suppose I can have a few bodyguards assigned to watch you.”

I huff. I don’t need a fucking babysitter. “They can’t just…follow me around all day!”

“I’ll put my security team on it. You won’t even know they’re there. Besides, I need to go into the office tomorrow, anyhow, so you can ride with me.”

“You do?”

“Board meeting.”

I hate myself for feeling better about this, that he’s insisting. The idea of a well-trained team of professionals looking after me is very appealing, especially where Kylo is concerned. If half of what I remember means anything, then I have a good idea of what he’s capable of.

It is not pretty.

But I can’t imagine the expense of a security team. That sounds like a lot.

He smirks like he can read my thoughts.

“You don’t really have a choice.” His voice holds an edge, authoritative in a way that tells me he’s used to being in charge and has no problem assuming control of a situation. Which is probably what I need right now. “But I’m not doing a fucking thing until you say it.”

“Until I say _what_?”

“That I’m handling this. And you’ll do as you’re fucking told.” His tone is like a whip, now. “I don’t like knowing someone is watching you and planning God knows what and we have no idea who it is.”

Raw terror rockets through me.

“Fine. You’re the boss.”

A slow, panty-dropping grin slides over his face, and I bite my lips together. Fuck. That came out…not how I intended. My face turns red. I can feel it burning, which will only make any backpedaling on my part even more embarrassing.

“I have a party on Saturday though. It’s the annual office party for work and–”

And even though I know damn well the only reason I wanted to go to the stupid work party before all this shit went down was that I knew for a fact I’d be getting a square meal out of the deal, and since this won’t be a problem for the next couple of weeks, assuming Solo intends on feeding me while I’m here, and mostly because I don’t like his heavy-handed authoritarianism, I dig my heels in.

He’s already shaking his head _no_.

“I really want to go and I’ve been planning on it for ages. And I have to be there. It’s…it’s part of being on a team,” I finish lamely.

Dang, he’s kinda scary under outright opposition. But I hold my ground. The monsters I’ve seen are way scarier.

He watches me speculatively for half a minute, glaring bullets until he grunts, “All right. We’ll go to your party. But you’re not going back to your apartment again.”

They stand there, in his guest room, squared off in an argument, and he crosses his arms.

“Other than what you brought here, do you own any valuables?"

He knows damn well she doesn’t own a goddamned thing of value. The only thing she might want is a small box under her bed, which he’s pawed through a thousand times, holding a few photographs of her and Finn and Rose all the way back to middle school, along with a few legal documents – delayed birth certificate, high school diploma, state-issued I.D., and a copy of the lease for her apartment.

He already has copies of everything in the safe room.

"Guns? Weapons?” Her gun is locked in the safe room, too.

She turns white at this and shakes her head _no._

“We can send someone for the rest of your things, all right?”

“What, so I’m moving in?” she snarls.

_Oooh, I touched a nerve, didn’t I baby? Damn, you have a temper._

He takes a steadying breath. “I think that’s for the best. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. What’s the rent for a room in a place like this?”

Her gaze drops pointedly to his crotch and he just about shoves her onto the bed and rips her clothes off.

“I thought I told you I’m not interested in a cheap fling.”

Through gritted teeth, she bites, “What _are_ you interested in?”

“Right now, I’m interested in making sure you don’t get yourself raped and killed and chopped up into little tiny pieces by some psychopath who evidently knows enough about you to break into your place and scare the living shit out of you.”

She huffs and he keeps going, “And if you have any idea who it is and you’re not telling me? Then he must be pretty fucking scary.”

“I can’t,” she breathes.

_Gotcha._

“If you need something, I’ll take care of it,” he deflects. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“And you’ll help me get rid of my stalker just because? For _nothing_ in return?”

“Something like that.” His eyes narrow in the dim light and she really ought to pay attention to the warning signs. He'll need to teach her that, too.

_I’m about ten seconds away from tearing you to pieces, sweetheart._

“All right,” she finally whispers, looking up at him with a thrilling mixture of terror and fascination and he fights to keep blatant triumph from flashing in his eyes.

“All right… _what_?” he persists. “I need you to say it. So I know we’re all clear.”

“I won’t go back to my place. I’ll let you handle things. Your way. Until we're sure my...stalker is gone.”

And in spite of her spitting fury over his admittedly harsh demands, she looks relieved.

Just like he knew she would be.

_Daddy knows best, baby girl. The rest is history, I think._

She’s one tough little nut to crack, but Ben has infinite patience and unlimited resources, and now, oh, _now_ he has proximity and it almost isn’t even a contest anymore. 

She really thinks this is all going to blow over, and he can see his mistake with perfect clarity, in hindsight.

It’s going to take a little bit of time. A few more days.

Fine.

That’s fine.

His fist tightens but he doesn’t make a sound when the tumbler in his hand cracks, splitting a long fissure in the crystal from the rim to the weighted base.

Calmly, he gets up and pours the remainder of scotch into the sink at the bar and sets the broken glass inside. It won’t do at all for him to break it further and risk a hidden shard finding its way from the thick pile of the rug into a bare foot or knee.

It might be nice to fuck Rey out here, after all, maybe bend her over the back of the sofa and yank on her hair while he slams endlessly between her thighs. Or he might want to force her into a kneel right about… _there_ …so he can look out over the city lights while stuffs his cock in her pretty face.

He pours himself another scotch and takes a sip, contemplating the possibilities.

As furious as he was over her behavior at the wedding reception and again tonight with her open defiance, he understands she is a spirited girl and impulsive.

If anything, he recognizes impulse and the nature of yielding to one’s animal instincts. It was impulse, after all, that made him decide he was going to fuck her raw after she rebuffed him so haughtily at Hux’s rehearsal dinner.

It was impulse that drove him to seethe in quiet fury until he saw her again the next day when she grudgingly took his arm – making it clear she only did so for the sake of social etiquette – and permitted him to walk her down the aisle, and it was definitely impulse when he decided then and there merely fucking her little brains out wouldn’t be nearly enough, impulse that determined he would marry her, own her, and have her all to himself forever. So much better than a handful of nights.

Fucking her out of revenge would have only been so satisfying. But, conning her into marrying _him_ , the literal monster from her childhood, will be so much more delectable, even if he really does love her more than anything.

She just needs to be brought around to realize how perfect they are for each other.

Plus, once they are married, she won’t be able to testify against him in court, not that he ever thinks it will come to that.

But murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations, and he knows if her repressed memories ever come out to be more than nightmares and crazy talk, he’ll need to shut it down.

Still, he’s very, very glad he decided not to have her killed before meeting her again at the Hux’s wedding.

And the _other_ one…well, she made a very interesting, temporary replacement in the intervening months until he could set his plans for Rey into place. An excellent practice dummy for the real event.

All those sleeping pills…poor, poor Bazine.

One of the three candidates of interest Fett brought him after Ben hired the mercenary to find the girl.

Bazine. A junkie who actually went to school with Rose Tico and was a year behind Rey in school. She was hard up for cash, and it was ridiculously easy to bring her to New York and do all kinds of things to her.

He paid her well and she knows to keep her mouth shut.

But, perhaps he should consider having her taken out of the equation altogether. He really doesn’t like loose ends.

The scotch burns the back of his throat with a mellow warmth and he takes out his phone. Rey is probably asleep by now, and he looks forward to the day when they can discuss things like this, things about loose ends and people and problems that impact both of their futures. Together. Like a real married couple.

_Is this what you would want, sweetheart? Just eliminate the problem? It only takes a call…and she could cause such an annoying hassle if she had a mind to…and I know you won’t like it, my old peccadilloes coming back to haunt us._

He sips his scotch and considers the pros and cons. There are a few good reasons to have Bazine alive. In fact, she might make an excellent decoy for whoever is watching Rey, although he’s fairly sure he can guess who is having Rey followed.

Snoke will need to be dealt with. Snoke won’t hesitate to kill her if he thinks Rey knows anything about her real identity. Or his.

Now that he knows she’s being watched, the sooner they are married, the better.

He needs to make sure nobody will ever believe her in a million years, if and when she remembers what happened. 

And in the meantime, he can throw Snoke's man - if that's who it is - off the trail.

He waits another half hour until he’s positive she’s tucked into bed before making the call.

_“Fett.”_

“I need something handled. Quickly. And quietly.”

_“Same pay as last time?”_

“I’ll double it if you can make it a priority. And absolutely airtight. Nobody knows.”

_“Fine.”_

“It’s Bazine Netal. She’s rather down on her luck, last I heard. Spending some time in rehab up in Niima.”

Fett grunts an acknowledgment. They both know Ben is footing the bill. 

“I need you to fetch her for me. Put her up in Manhattan. And then I need you to–”

_“Erase her?”_

His nostrils flare at the interruption. The man is always so quick to assume, always so eager to spill blood. God, it’s fucking aggravating.

“ _Watch_ her. And find out who else is watching.”

“If someone else is watching, it won’t be easy to keep under wraps if you need to _remove_ her later.”

“I’m not paying your _extortion_ rates because it’s going to be fucking easy. If I thought it would be fucking easy I would fucking have called someone less fucking expensive.”

He’s going to lose his temper. He wants to get back to Rey, peek in on her. Give her something stronger than some crushed up sleeping medication so he can–

Fett’s long silence hangs over the phone.

Ben feigns a grudging sigh. “I’ll triple your rates, then. Just make sure it’s fucking done.”

"Where do you want her put up?"

"I have a place in mind. I need a few days. I'll let you know when it's ready. Until then, fucking figure it out."

He disconnects without waiting for confirmation, knowing Fett’s already accepted the job.

His thoughts turn back to Rey, presumably asleep in her room. It’s very late. He could risk it, sneaking in to look at her, watch her breathe, smell her.

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, replaying the faint sound of the lock clicking on her door after he shut her in. There was no way he had time to get cameras into the room, but he does have a key.

Still, he'd hate to frighten her just when she's starting to settle in.

It’s fine. He can wait. Maybe it’ll take a couple of extra days. Whatever.

He’ll take her to her precious fucking office party. Maybe she’ll loosen up if he buys her a dress, takes her out on the town first.

Then maybe after that…

Yes.

If she’s not accepted reality by New Year’s Eve, then he’ll need to take a firmer hand.

_You have to do everything the hard way, sweetie. It’s all right._

He knows this, always has, and this is why he loves her, even if her obstinacy is going to get her hurt someday.

She still deserves to get fucked like a whore after all the shit she’s put him through. But it's fine.

It’s better this way.

Everyone knows it’s much more fun to play with your food before you eat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...based on my last Twitter poll, this fic was up next for an update, so here ya go you filthy animals. 
> 
> Who's ready for some dirty, dirty smut? 
> 
> I know I am. Rey thinks she is...I know Ben definitely is. Next chapter, loves...xoxoxo! <3


	14. play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Creep Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53ZiZuEK6psN8qGfB3onUY?si=2WK1vLw-Rq-o_mThwHV5rw)

Gorgeous artwork by [@aestivaltide](https://twitter.com/aestivaltide)!

# play

Only after I brush my teeth and throw on a very disreputable Nirvana t-shirt – my favorite to sleep in, even with the holes – do I realize I left a whole cooler full of leftovers at my apartment and they’ll spoil if I don’t get ice on them in the next day or two.

Ben said I can’t go back there, and I agreed, but the idea of leaving food to go bad irks me.

However, it’s difficult to care too much when I slide into the lovely sheets and let the quiet sink in. Up here, ninety floors high, I’m free of the noise that usually lulls me to sleep in Hell’s Kitchen. No screaming or sirens or dogs barking. No thump of music or blare of the neighbor’s television. No traffic or hissing radiator or thumping of pipes or feet or god-knows-what beyond my flimsy, lock-riddled door.

Nothing here but peace and comfort and luxury to tickle the edges of my memory. Maybe I used to sleep like this, long ago. Before the monsters came. I don't know.

As strange as it is, I feel right at home. Here, I sleep better than I have in a very long time.

But when my phone buzzes to wake me early, I jump out of bed, filled with fresh worry. It mingles with anticipation, a sense of almost-adventure as if something exciting is just around the corner. I think I know why.

It's all Ben’s doing, I’m sure in no small part because of the way he kissed me yesterday.

Despite the reason for me being here, in his home, surrounded by his things, under his protection – such a medieval concept, surely – I am floundering for a reason to stick to my guns and keep things platonic for as long as possible.

Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s inevitable, us having sex. 

I just feel like everything will change when we do it. I'm still holding on, maybe, clinging to the old Rey. It's something I won't be able to take back. I don’t have tons of experience, but I know enough. And unlike after Rose’s wedding, now I am positive he wants me. 

_Someone else wants me, too. Although for what I don’t know._

_Kylo._

Ben said he’d have a “security team” watching me, but I wonder if they are really going to be any good at protecting me from Kylo. After all, Kylo must be good, too, if he was able to get to my apartment, figure out the deadbolts, and slip past Teedo and Maz and Plutt without anyone being the wiser.

I linger over my hair and my makeup even though I’m unsure how long it takes to get to work from here by car. Ben said he’d give me a ride and I wonder if he really needs to be up so early. Somehow I doubt his board meeting starts at the crack of dawn like most regular people’s workdays. Only after I realize I’m avoiding him do I finish getting dressed and head downstairs.

The smell of coffee draws me to the kitchen with far too much ease.

There’s a fresh pot sitting on the counter, but nobody is around. Just when I wonder if he made it himself, he strolls into the kitchen looking absolutely gorgeous in a gray three-piece suit. My heart sort of skips a beat when I catch a whiff of his shaving soap or whatever scent it is he’s wearing.

He shoots me a wicked grin as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to my blood pressure.

“How’d you sleep, sweetheart?”

_Ugh. Why does he have to be so fucking sexy this early?_

His hair is slicked black and he’s freshly shaved and he looks very much like an extremely wealthy predator on his way to a board meeting.

“I slept great,” I admit, suddenly unsure if it’s okay if I just help myself to his coffee. “How about you?”

“I had the most _interesting_ dream,” he informs me with a pointed glance at my mouth. “You featured rather prominently in it.”

Dark eyes twinkling, he gives me a generous minute to get over myself and doesn’t speak another word, though he steps close and pulls a couple of mugs from the cabinet behind me.

I don’t miss the way his eyes rake over my second-best suit, a nice, boring, beige jacket and skirt I found at a consignment store with Rose in East Village.

The sleeves are only a little frayed around the edges, but if I push them up the wear and tear isn’t so noticeable. However, his sharp gaze doesn’t miss a thing, and when I self-consciously slide the sleeves up my forearms, it only draws his attention.

His lips twitch, but he’s a gentleman and keeps his trap shut, thank God.

I curse myself. I should’ve shortened the sleeves to three-quarter length a month ago to freshen things up, but I procrastinated. And now I look like a total _peasant_ next to him.

Smirking, he passes me a mug of coffee and I forget everything but getting caffeine into my bloodstream.

_So much better than Lipton. Mmmhhh._

And after my coffee is gone, he helps me into my coat, inadvertently sending all kinds of shivers through me, and escorts me in near silence all the way down the elevator, across the polished marble floor of his lobby to his car. I recognize Mitaka, his driver, and give him a friendly smile. Ben is quiet on the ride to my building, which to my surprise, we share.

I would remark on the coincidence, but I’m back to feeling a bit awkward under his easy sophistication. In the weak, wintery morning sunshine, I once again realize how different our lives are and how much trouble I’m putting him to. But he never says a word of complaint or indicates he's at all put-out.

And this is how it is all week.

Get up early, get dressed, share a few moments in the kitchen sipping coffee – apparently he has staff who prefer to remain invisible, or so he informs me – and ride in stilted silence to work. Ben escorts me without complaint every single day, even though he doesn’t have to since his board meeting was only on Monday.

But I won't argue, and I grudgingly admit I do feel safer with him around. True to his promise, I never do catch a glimpse of his security people, though he assures me they are watching very closely.

At work, I spend the days like I normally do: Dealing with Phasma, who only makes two catty remarks about my new boots and coat, and fending off Canady, who seems more stressed out than usual and is a raging asshole most of the time. I avoid him if at all possible. Hux is in court all week, thank God, so I don’t have to look him in the eye after getting embarrassingly smashed at his Christmas party.

Despite everything falling back into a routine, it's hard to concentrate on my job. After everything that happened this weekend, I feel _different_. Almost detached. I feel disconnected from my friends, too, but I know this is because we all have our own things happening all at once.

But maybe now for the first time, I am avoiding them. Maybe I’m using everyone’s busy schedules and my own hot mess of a life as an excuse to put some distance between me and them and, by default, Kylo.

Or maybe I haven’t told anyone I’m staying with Ben because I already know how they’ll react. Poe is easy to predict. He’ll be nothing but sex tips and endless interrogation over the décor of Solo's penthouse and not-so-subtle hints that he wouldn't say no to an introduction. Finn will give me sympathy, which I actually wouldn’t mind, but he’ll be unquestionably kind and understanding and freaked out when I have to explain how the gun he gave me has been stolen by my terrifying stalker. And then Rose will find out because neither of us can keep secrets from her, and she’ll offer to put me up at her place, which is sweet, but again, complicated. She’s married to my boss, and it’s already going to be awkward as hell when she finds out I moved in with his best friend.

His hot, loaded, very sexy best friend.

Honestly, I just want to avoid everything. And Ben is good at handling shit or at least paying people to handle it for him.

Monday before work, he took my apartment keys and promised to take care of the inspection later. I didn't know what he meant, but I was happy enough not to have to deal with Plutt. And Solo insisted on having someone pack up the rest of my clothes, too. When the few, sad little boxes arrived at his penthouse, he hinted strongly I ought to freshen up my wardrobe at his expense.

I’m vastly tempted to take him up on the offer, knowing anything he buys me is going to be far superior to what I currently have, but I’m holding out. I remind myself constantly this is all temporary. Like a vacation, even though I still go to work every day.

And even though my new schedule is much easier, I feel mentally and emotionally exhausted, just drained.

After work, I’m too tired to do much of anything and so when I collapse into Ben’s very luxurious town car instead of trudging home after a packed subway ride, it’s all I can do to stay awake, although dinner is worth staying awake for.

Every night this week it’s been something amazing, served with a delicious glass of wine and eaten in Solo's immaculate dining room overlooking the city lights from the top of the world. I have a few spare hours every evening, and since I don’t really have chores or errands, I read and fall asleep early in the guest bedroom.

Solo claims I’m his guest and I can do anything I want, but I feel so odd here, not sure I belong in all this extravagance, kind of a roommate but not really paying my way.

He keeps to himself, although he’s rather like a cat, turning up whenever I pop out of my room for a glass of water or to trade a book I’ve finished for a new one. The penthouse is always quiet, and I often wonder where he gets off to while I’m reading, but I think he spends plenty of his own time amusing himself on his computer or with a book of his own.

I’ve stumbled on him in the library more often than not, and I was thrilled to find a copy of my murder mystery novel so I could finish reading it.

“If there’s something you want, let me know and I’ll get it for you.”

I think he means he’ll have someone else get it for me, but I’ve yet to ask, feeling not quite confident enough in my position here to make any demands.

Despite this, every little thing I used to have to get for myself is taken care of in meticulous detail.

After work on Monday, I came back to my room to find the bed made and my laundry is neatly done and put away, even my ratty Nirvana t-shirt, along with a new bathrobe and slippers and the ripped seam on my slacks sewn up.

Every night I come home to find any trace of a mess I made that morning magically erased, fresh towels in the bath, shower door squeegeed dry, bed made, laundry neatly folded and tucked into the massive walk-in closet.

I don’t have to worry about ice for the cooler or grocery shopping or even polishing my shoes or darning socks anymore.

I don’t even have to stress out about food, either. The fridge is stocked with all kinds of things, and after Ben's encouragement, this is the one thing I’m not shy about helping myself to, even packing myself a lunch every day.

It’s strange, this existence. My only worries are eating, sleeping, reading, and getting ferried back and forth to work. And Ben, of course. I’m looking forward to the New Year’s Eve party tomorrow, and I’ve been debating all morning on giving in and letting Ben take me dress shopping tomorrow morning. He offered three nights ago, and it’s been his singular acknowledgment that he’s planning on going as my date, which is about the only romantic insinuation I’ve had from him all week.

He hasn't tried to kiss me again, and I can tell he wants to. There’s this leashed tension about him like he’s waiting for something.

I think he wants me to come clean about my stalker, to trust him with the details. 

This is by far my biggest worry, highlighted by my sudden lack of all other worries. I know I’ll need to explain everything eventually. He needs to know, if for no other reason than maybe he can help me figure out what to do so I can get out of his hair sooner rather than later.

It’s Friday, and I’ve been mulling it over all morning. Maybe I'll tell him next week. After the party. I'll need to deviate from my schedule, anyhow, since I never made it to Jakku. Winter term is starting and maybe they'll let me do a late registration or something.

I'm thinking about it, rereading the same brief over and over again, when I get the text.

_What color underwear are you wearing?_

My pulse leaps when I see it. It’s Ben, moving things along. He must be done waiting for me to make a move, then. It’s almost a relief. Finally, we’re getting some traction.

Surreptitiously, I pick up my phone to reread the message. But my excitement plummets when I realize it’s not from Ben. It can’t be, since his number is programmed in and this is coming from an unknown number.

Deflated, I reply.

_u have the wrong number_

Three little dots appear. Whoever it is must be replying, probably apologizing, maybe embarrassed. I wonder if I should fuck with them and tell them I’m a god-fearing Christian and a grandmother, to boot, and it's nobody's business what color my knickers are.

I bite my lip and try not to laugh. The reply comes through in two texts, one after the other.

_No. I have the right number._

_This is Rey Johnson, est age 22, birthdate unknown, 5 ft 7 inches, brunette. Need I go on?_

I can see he’s typing some more, and I can’t stop staring at my phone, even though I know Phasma is looking this way and probably coming over any minute to chew me out for not working.

But I'm sort of paralyzed when the next text appears.

_Here’s the deal, sweetie: You go snap a pic of your underwear so I can see what color it is, right now, and send it back. Or someone close to you is gonna have a real bad day._

What? All the air feels like it's been sucked out of the room.

I feel cold and sweaty like I get right before I throw up, where my vision narrows to a pinprick of light and all I can hear is an odd buzzing in my ears.

It’s him.

Kylo.

It has to be him. But I’m at work and Phasma is glaring and I need to fucking get it together.

Besides, I’m a New Yorker and we’re made of stronger stuff than this.

I remind myself that Ben has a whole highly-trained security team watching me.

So I type, _I don’t have time for this shit, asshole. I’m calling the cops._

I set my phone on my desk and try to make it look like I’m working, but I’m staring at the screen. When another message pops up I flinch in my seat, I’m so keyed up.

_You know who this fucking is and what happens if you tell. I don’t recommend getting the cops involved._

This pronouncement is followed by three little flame emojis and my phone clatters to the floor when I drop it as if it’s actually on fire.

Phasma is marching my way and I jump up and exclaim, “I have to, um, bathroom.”

She sneers but lets me go with a roll of her eyes. I snatch up my phone and bolt for the ladies’ room across the corridor, not even bothering to look for Ben’s security team like I usually do.

Only when I’m locked in a stall at the end of the row do I peek at my phone again, wondering what to do.

Should I call someone? Should I call Ben?

Another text comes through.

_I’m waiting. Don’t make me wait. I fucking hate waiting._

I wonder if Kylo knows where Finn or Rose live and my heartbeat kicks into a gallop. If he’s been following me, then–

I yelp when my phone starts to buzz from an incoming phone call.

It’s Finn.

“Finn! Are you okay?” I gasp, hands shaking with adrenaline.

“Yeah?” He sounds all right. “Are you?”

_Fuck, no._

“Yep.” I try to level out my voice. “Uh, what’s up?”

“Just calling to check on you – we haven’t chatted much since Christmas and I wanted to let you know we had our visit with the adoption agent on Monday. And see how things went with you and Solo?”

I’m swamped with an immediate surge of guilt. A good friend would have called and asked about the adoption right away.

“Oh, Finn, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’ve had a lot going on. With work.”

My phone buzzes in my hand as another text comes through. I refuse to look at it.

“How’d it go? On Monday?” I ask instead.

“She said something about needing to re-run our background checks. Some glitch with their computer system or something. It’s probably fine. Just more waiting.”

“Yeah?” I sneak a peek at my phone.

_You’ve got two minutes, then shit’s gonna get real interesting._

Fuck.

“Yeah. I think waiting is the name of the game right now.”

“Finn, I’m sorry I have to go. Can I call you back? Um. Work stuff. Sorry sorry sorry!”

I smash the _end call_ button and switch on my camera.

Even as I ask myself if I’m really doing this, I hoist a foot onto the toilet seat and snap a picture of my crotch. It's not very sexy, but that's not what I'm going for, is it?

In a weird, crazy moment I’m glad I’m wearing my new underwear from Christmas, the set Ben got me.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit _send_ and stare at the screen until I can see the message was read.

_Keep your phone handy._

_and remember shhh_

_xx, K_

I’m sweaty and shaky and horrified. I don’t know what to do. Like always when I’m scared, I freeze up, and it takes me a full eighteen minutes to get back to my desk.

I know it does because Phasma tells me she’s taking every minute out of my lunch break.

I keep my phone handy, even though I don’t get another text for the rest of the day. I spend my abbreviated break on the phone with Rose and Finn again, too. I call from my desk phone and I keep my mouth shut about what happened, somehow knowing if I say a single word to either of them Kylo will find out and do something awful.

There’s nothing like the absolute thrill of her coming to him of all people for help, particularly when it’s entirely his doing that she’s scared out of her poor little wits in the first place.

All week, he’s been toying with the idea of giving in and taking what he wants, barely restraining the urge to feed her drugs again and just fuck her into a stupor until she admits what he’s known since the minute he walked her down the aisle.

They’re meant to be together.

It was Fate’s design he found her again, Fate who made his best friend fall in love with her best friend, and definitely Fate who put her in his path all those years ago at the boathouse, practically forcing him to intervene.

She couldn’t have been more than four back then, and even if he was still a child himself at fourteen, he was tall for his age and already a witness to things beyond his years. But he knew she was special even then.

That’s why he saved her.

And after she grew into a stunningly lovely woman, it was Fate who crossed their paths again, just when the time was right.

He never would have guessed he’d turn out to be such a romantic, but he won’t question Fate, even if Rey is having a hard time figuring things out.

She needs someone to educate her on her place – with him – and her purpose – to give him whatever he wants – and her future – to be his.

In exchange, he’ll take care of her problems, or hire people to, and he’ll clothe her and feed her and let her play, perhaps for the first time in her life, the way she was meant to. In luxury and opulence, as his utterly spoiled little pet.

He doesn’t need cameras on her now that she's here. This is even better than before, knowing she’s just in the next room and he can go in any time he wants and the only thing protecting her from getting herself tied down and fucked unconscious is his own self-control.

These days are numbered. Soon enough, maybe even tonight, he’ll have her in his bed. And once he gets her there, she’s not spending another night without him ever again.

Yes, it’s better if she comes to him, although he’s absolutely going to make her pay for dragging this out far longer than necessary. Time is of the essence, and if Snoke or anyone else is sniffing around, then they need to get fucking married.

Of course, she has punishment coming either way, for a whole litany of sins. He owes her for the gun, certainly, a dangerous thing she had no business ever acquiring in the first place, and also for the deadbolt and the window bar, even if she’s never going back to that apartment again.

He's already taken measures to nudge things along, but if she doesn’t give in by tomorrow, New Year’s Eve, then he’s ready to admit defeat and take matters into his own hands. In a much more _direct_ way. Still, he’s mellow, relaxed, knowing the writing is already on the wall.

And he can tell it’s driving her crazy, trying to figure out if and where Kylo might pop up in their perfectly normal, excruciatingly bland routine. So far she’s not uttered a peep about Kylo, not even after he made her send him a picture of her underwear this morning, which was enough to give him a hard-on unlike anything he’s ever had in his life.

When it’s finally time to pick her up from work, he can already tell she’s rattled, can see it the instant she slips into the car beside him.

“Something happened today. Tell me.”

If she can’t trust him with her secrets eventually, then they’re really going to have a problem.

_All I want is for you to come to me, sweetheart. Then I can take over from there._

“It was a long week. Just stressed out.”

She swallows and ignores him. She’s stubborn. He’ll need to put a stop to it.

_Fuck it. I've had enough of this. Tonight, then._

He doesn’t speak again until they get to the penthouse. Sliding her coat from her shoulders, he sets it aside and rests his hands on her arms. She doesn’t move away, and so he lightly kneads her shoulders and back, thumbs digging in with just the right amount of pressure along her shoulder blades, finding all the little knots and tendons and soothing them while he watches the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“You should go sit in the jacuzzi and relax, sweetheart.” He keeps his voice low. Casual.

“I, um, don’t have a swimsuit.” The words are faint and present no argument at all. A token resistance easily swept aside.

He snorts. “You don’t need one.” He pushes, just a bit. Just enough. “Don’t be such a neophyte. It’s not the first time I’ve had a naked girl in the jacuzzi. I think I can handle it.”

He gives her shoulders a few more businesslike squeezes then a brief, almost brotherly pat.

“Go on. I won’t look at you. I’ll fix you a drink and then we can order something up for dinner. It’s Pryde’s night off.”

Enric Pryde is his personal chef, a true master, but even he needs time on his own.

Ben allows Pryde more leeway than most because the man is a goddamn artist and a genius and temperamental as fuck.

It’s a huge exception Ben has the man on call as much as he does. But he’s the best in Manhattan, and probably the Eastern Seaboard, too, and nothing but the best will do for his Rey. Besides–

“Okay. The jacuzzi sounds really nice. Thanks.”

Pure triumph sinks into his gut when she glances over her shoulder.

He winks and she gives him a faint smile.

_And I believe this is game, set, and match, baby._

By the time he goes outside to join her, she’s stripped down and is neck-deep in bubbling water. The temperature is almost freezing out here and it's a bit windy. Her clothes have been discarded in a pile by the rail leading into the sunken pool. He catches a familiar glimpse of lace. She wore the bra today, too, then, not just the panties as he confirmed earlier. Good.

But she’s still wearing her underwear, which he can see through the distorted ripples of water backlit by soft blue LED light. 

_Ha. Like that’s going to stop what’s coming._

Her hair is wet and it shows off the clean angles of her skull, accentuating her firm little jaw and a round chin. A hint of dimple teases her cheeks, even when she’s serious as she is now.

She looks more relaxed though, until he strips out of his robe.

“Oh!” she exclaims and he covertly snickers when she averts her gaze, flustered.

Evidently, she’s not expecting him to join her and since he gave no indication he was planning to, she’s all the more shocked.

_Right where I want you. Perfect._

He passes her a wine spritzer and picks up his own lowball of scotch and, playing along with her modesty, leaves his shorts on as he steps into the water. Better to let her think she's safe until the last possible minute.

She takes a huge gulp of spritzer, trying to play it cool, but he can feel the furtive touch of her gaze wandering over him and he knows she likes what she sees, if the faint blush on her cheeks is any indication.

“All of my swim trunks are on the yacht,” he informs her, sipping his scotch and stretching his arms to either side, blatantly putting himself on display for her perusal.

“Oh, not here?” She’s trying to be casual. “Don’t you ever use this jacuzzi?”

His lips curl back in amusement. “All the time.”

When she puts two and two together and realizes he usually just goes in nude, her face turns a cute shade of pink.

“Are you gonna let me take you shopping for a party dress tomorrow?” She can’t wear that goddamned bridesmaid’s dress again. He’ll make sure of it, even if he has to make the fucking thing unwearable with his own bare hands.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks instead of answering him. “Maybe I’m not as nice as you think I am.”

_Aww, sweetie. Feeling guilty about sending a perfect stranger a picture of your panties?_

“Don’t you want me to be nice?” he counters. He sips his scotch and watches the internal debate flit over her face. He already knows the answer and it takes a minute for her to arrive at the same conclusion.

He can taste it, her curiosity. She wants him to pin her down and fuck her brains out, he'd bet his trust fund on it. But she's afraid of starting something she can't finish. She's still hell-bent on thinking this is going to end.

She’ll learn otherwise.

“You gonna tell me what happened at work today, or are you gonna make me guess?”

Her expression darkens into worry and he can see every crack in her armor, all the way down deep. All she needs is another careful prod and she’s going to buckle under the weight of her own fear.

Mentally, he’s already licking his chops like an animated cartoon wolf, his metaphorical napkin tied around his neck, knife and fork in hand, drooling, fucking _starving_. Ready to eat.

"I don't want to talk about it right now. But I'll tell you everything. Tomorrow."

She looks so small and petrified over this admission.

_Good girl. This is it. Right here._

He wants to purr, to gloat. To smirk. He permits a brief flash of teeth, acutely attuned to her scrutiny and careful to not startle her. But inside, he lets it go, the chain he’s been hauling on all week, allows it to finally, _finally_ slip free. A tension he's been holding with a white-knuckled grip since the day he decided he was going to marry her.

_Now._

“Why don’t you come over here and let me show you how nice I can be, sweetheart?” His voice is as rough as gravel. He flashes her a devil’s smile and to his pleasant surprise and absolute relief, she sets her goblet on the patio behind her and slides through the water until she bobs in front of him.

He keeps his arms splayed, an invitation not a threat, forcing her to do this next part on her own. To crawl willingly into his snare with both hands and lay her head into the teeth of the trap with eyes wide open.

She looks unsure and she keeps her shoulders under the water, as if it protects her somehow, so he gives her an encouraging smile.

“Come here,” he coaxes. She moves closer, his pretty little butterfly about to get so very tangled in his web. She doesn’t even know how tight he’s going to wrap her up.

_Baby, you're never getting loose after this._

The water bubbles and ripples amid the backdrop of the city lights behind her. It creates an illusion, like magic, and he imagines she’s as enraptured as he is when she obeys and moves close, setting a hand on his thigh for balance.

She licks her lips and he’s practically slathering with his own hunger.

“Rey. Come _here_.” Not just _here_ , but all the way here, he means.

His voice carries an edge to it, an authority she can’t ignore. It’s only a matter of minutes now before he has her. She seems to know this, too. But she straddles his lap in a few soft splashes.

Unadulterated lust burns the back of his throat and he gives her a thorough inspection. Her perfect little breasts sway in the water, so close to brushing against his chest.

“When’s the last time you did this, baby?” Briefly, he wonders if she’ll give him names and addresses so he can fucking destroy anyone who touched her before him. But it’s fine. He has her now, right here. He keeps his gaze on her tits so she doesn’t see his murderous jealousy and get scared.

“It’s been. A while,” she admits. She sets her hands on his shoulders and the slight weight of her presses against his crotch. He can’t hide it, how much he wants her, and she skitters back a few inches to perch on his knees, suddenly shy.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, daring to meet her eyes. “You can touch it.”

He takes her hand and sets it on his shoulder, then he takes the other and guides it under the water. She gasps when he drags it lower to cup firmly around the bulge at his groin.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard for someone, Rey.” He noses at the soft, damp skin under her jaw and kisses her there and he can practically taste her wild pulse and escalating bewilderment.

She moves her hand away and he curves his arm around her back, trapping her against him.

_Too late._

Her eyes sear into his and her gaze drops to his mouth. He wants to taste this feeling, all of it. Time slows to a standstill.

_Come on, baby. Come to me. All the way._

Slowly, he bends to kiss her and snares her hand, once again coaxing it under the water. While his lips settle over hers, she moves to touch him on her own this time and gives his bulge a tentative squeeze. His grip tightens painfully on her wrist. He knows it’s painful because she winces and murmurs an objection against his mouth. But she doesn’t move away. 

It's all for show, her resistance. A flimsy pretense easily brushed aside.

_That’s because you want to get fucked like a whore, isn’t it, baby? I know you do. I’ve seen the way you fuck yourself._

Instead of easing up, he grips her harder and presses her hand to his crotch until a tremulous little moan escapes her lightly parted lips.

“More,” he commands, but gently.

She does it again, _more_ , and his other fingers dig into her hips.

He can see it in her eyes, feel by the way her lithe, wet body relaxes into his how she wants this. Oh, yes.

She’s just putting up a bit of a fight because she doesn’t want to admit it to herself, is all.

It’s okay. It's just part of the dance she's learned how to do. To protect herself. He'll unravel it all, teach her to need him the way he needs her. He knows what she wants, what she really needs. He lifts her, practically weightless in the water, and bends to take her in his mouth, tonguing a stiff nipple until she softens, yielding a little more with every kiss.

He swipes her with his tongue, drunk on the familiar texture of her delicate skin, even if she wasn't awake the last time. Her thighs tighten against his. She doesn't know he's already been here, done this.

“I don’t think you want _nice_ at all. Do you?” The question is barely a sound, almost invisible. He waits. He's waited an eternity. 

He can wait a few more seconds.

“No.”

Emboldened, he tugs the waistband of his shorts down and lifts his hips. She helps him peel them down his thighs like the eager little slut he knew she would be. He kisses her, wet and sloppy, and she kisses him back and drags his shorts past his knees until he can kick them away. 

“Mmmh, I don’t wanna be nice, either.”

Suddenly all motion, he hooks her underwear with his thumbs and jerks them down until they tangle around her ankles. It’s easy to shove her legs apart and raise her a little until the head of his dick is prodding against her.

He scrapes his teeth over her skin, not gentle at all, sucking and licking while she does the same to his neck. He shudders and bites her earlobe, making her whine like a bitch in heat.

She’s stroking his cock again, almost too hard. This is a game with her, and she’s pushing boundaries.

_That’s okay, baby. Just so long as you know Daddy pushes back._

Exhilarated, he bites her earlobe again, and she yelps “Ow!” His grip tightens. Her fingernails scrape over his balls.

Faster than she can get away, he wrangles her fists behind her back. She struggles, a touch of outrage lighting her eyes.

“What the-?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, dipping his head to bite her shoulder and catch his breath. His teeth sink in hard enough to leave imprints in her skin, a clear warning, and she stills. But her nipples are hard and wet and pushing against his chest and she’s not pulling away.

She leans close and he feels like a god when she gives in, only a matter of time, just like he knew it would be.

_Oh, baby, I’m going to tear you into little tiny pieces and put you back together all fucked up. And you’re gonna let me, aren’t you?_

Almost violently, he snags a handful of hair, cranking her neck to angle her face to his. So he can watch. Fuck, it's so much better when her eyes are open. When she _knows_.

She glares back and it’s nothing at all to shift his hips and grab his erection and press inside, to look her in the eye when he finally takes her. It’s easy to lever himself up while shoving her down, impaling her, and before they know it he’s there, the head of his cock bumping against her cervix hard enough to make her squirm and moan.

"How's that feel?"

"Good."

Wildfire licks along his spine when she moves, her tight body compressing on his as he takes her, all the way, without mercy or restraint, even though he knows he’s big and she’s as tight as a virgin and he can see some pain flickering in her eyes. She says it's good, and she likes a little pain.

_Kinky whore. I knew you would._

_Good._

Water drips from her hair and down his arm, wrapped around her shoulders while he keeps her hands pinned at the small of her back. He gives her another rough bounce until she moans, a little noise all for him. His mouth crashes onto hers so he can swallow it down, consume every gasp and breathy whimper, trading each one for a heavy bump and grind until her thighs are shaking and he knows he's going to leave bruises. He's not letting up and she panics at how deep he hits, at how much he's taking, and far too late she tries to wrench free.

Surging out of the water, he lifts her easily and moves them to the opposite side of the jacuzzi, sprawling her out on his abandoned robe and the cold tiles and not giving two fucks if she’s comfortable.

He hooks her knees under his arms and lifts her to his mouth. She smells good, familiar. Like pussy and faintly of chlorine and her cunt is scorching hot when he pushes his tongue inside. She writhes and cries out a startled, “Oh!”

Growling, he slides up, sealing his mouth over the engorged nub of her clit and sucking until she shivers and groans and lifts her hips, eager for more. He licks in wide, hot stripes until she’s slippery with her own wetness again and her hands are fisting in his hair.

But she doesn’t get to come until he says so, and besides, it’s getting cold out here, so instead of finishing her off, he braces a foot under the water and props the other on the step, forcing her legs open wide. He rests her thigh over his and slips inside and they gasp together when he slams home. Water streams and beads on her skin and faint steam emits from both of them in the chill.

He fucks her in silence for a minute or two, caught up in the hot push and glide of her body sheathing his in the cold evening air.

She won’t be able to orgasm like this, even if it feels like heaven to him. The penetration is too deep and it’s the wrong angle to stimulate her clitoris, but she’s gripping his arms to hold herself in place, just letting him pound away anyhow, telling him not to stop.

“You like this?” he grunts. “Getting used like my own little cum sock? Whore.”

“Fuck you!”

"Say you like it." He drags her hips to meet his and rams inside hard enough to make it hurt, make his presence known. "Say you like getting fucked like this and maybe I'll let you come."

Scowling, he picks up the pace, scraping her shoulders against the cold patio stones.

“Ow!” she blurts out. 

_Hard-headed little girl. I can fucking see you like it._

“Fine." If she's gonna be stubborn about it. "Make another sound. See what happens.”

Instantly, her mouth clamps shut, eyes going wide.

_Oooh, I'll bet I’m the only person alive who knows just how to shut you up._

For another minute or so she’s dead silent, the only noises are the light splashes of water as he pistons his hips into hers, the wet slap of his balls smacking against her butt, his rough breathing, growing harsher with every pump of his dick in her soft, wet cunt.

“You close?” he pants. She doesn’t answer, but when she twists her hips into his, he groans. The bliss hits him like a wrecking ball, all at once. The look on her face is enough to force a rabid snarl out of him and he spurts hot and wet between her thighs. Her mouth falls open as she watches him come.

In this moment of release, he can’t hide. The truth flashes behind his eyes. She'll have to come to terms with it soon enough. He’s a predator and she is very much his prey. And he _won’t_ hide it. Not anymore.

There’s no point, not now that he has her. He can see confusion dancing in her gaze. Suddenly her jaw clenches and she looks furious. Clearly, she was expecting an orgasm of her own and now she’s all worked up.

Her temper is downright inspirational.

He heads her off with a soft chuckle.

“Shit. You didn’t get off? That wasn’t very nice of me at all.”

She tries to spin away but he clutches her in place, not letting her move. Breathing hard and holding her stare, he only lets up on his grip after he slips out of her.

He glances down so he can watch his cum drip out and slide down the crack of her ass. He’ll fuck that hole later, he decides, stroking a finger over the puffy, chafed lips of her pussy, which are already flushed and red from the rough treatment. 

He smiles.

She huffs and slithers back into the warm water, watching avidly when he dips in to rinse off before stepping out and yanking his robe over his shoulders.

“Rinse off, sweetheart. I’ll make you something to eat. Then you can have your turn at coming.”

_But only when I say so._

He shoots her a wink and turns to stroll inside, barefoot.

He doesn’t need to look back to hear her muffled cursing and splashing as she scurries to obey.

Which is good.

Like he said earlier when he texted her. He doesn't like to be kept waiting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm SLOWLY getting around to replies, and you may start seeing stuff from many chapters ago. But I truly adore your comments, and dang, I am looking forward to what is coming up. Things are definitely heating up! 
> 
> Next chapter is going to be mostly smut, I'm afraid, and then things are going to take a darkish turn from there, so buckle in...
> 
> To all of you egging me on via Twitter and all the rest of it, thank you. <3 I'm feeling the love, and it means the WORLD to me. 
> 
> xoxoxo!


	15. play (pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** There's some dub-con here. Read those tags for slapping, rough sex, verbal humiliation, etc., and please remember that Ben Solo is very much the villain in this story.

Smoking hot moodie by [@EmilyFiction](https://twitter.com/EmilyFiction)!

# play (pt. 2)

I scramble for a towel, miffed, and more than a little interested in getting my own turn at coming and wondering what it will be like.

Ben pauses at the door on his way inside, holding the door for me, and I hustle in ahead of him.

I’m a little shaky. I wasn’t expecting sex with Ben to be so _overwhelming_. And while it was harsh, it was also more real than anything in my life.

It’s warmer inside, but my teeth chatter from my wet hair and from being out in the near-freezing December air.

He mentioned food, so I head for the kitchen, but halfway through the living room he tugs on my arm and spins me. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck to look in his eyes.

After what we just did, I don’t think I should be embarrassed, but his scrutiny is beyond intense. He observes me like he’s memorizing every pore of my skin, every eyelash, every micro-expression.

This is all new to me. My past sexual encounters have been nothing remotely like this. In comparison, they were boring, vapid, even. Nothing but too soft, too nice, and too polite to qualify as anything as impassioned as what just happened with Ben. I never came any of those times, either. I know it doesn’t always happen for the woman, but I want to with Ben.

I fix my gaze on his mouth. His face and lips are red and logically I know this is a physical aftermath of sex, when a person’s blood rises to the surface. But it's very alluring. Slowly, cautiously, he pulls me close and kisses me. In contrast to the now icy streams of water dripping from our hair, his mouth is hot, his tongue pushing between my lips with an almost-hesitance.

I open for him the way he likes, and he angles his head to kiss me deeper, hauling me against the hard slabs of muscle under his robe.

I’ve suddenly forgotten all about food.

I think if anyone else besides me could make me come, it would be him. I was _so_ close out there. I was going to. Every part of me tingles and aches at how close I was.

And him, oh.

In the end, I saw _something_ , something addictive and dark and enthralling.

Whatever I saw then is still here, in this penthouse, a living thing feeding off whatever is happening. The longer he kisses me and clutches me against his damp bathrobe, the more it intensifies.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me for being a bastard?” he finally murmurs. He’s so tame right now, holding me like I’m fragile, barely touching me at all compared to how roughly he was gripping me a few minutes ago.

My mouth gapes open. I probably _should_ yell at him. My shoulders are all scraped up and stinging from the scratchy stone patio. And I’m tender, too, from how harsh he was.

But I’m still turned on, and I kind of want to do it again. Although maybe on a more forgiving surface this time.

“Do you want me to yell?” I finally ask.

“I want you to be you,” he replies cryptically.

Okay. Well, I guess I can do that.

My mouth quirks into a small smile and he returns it with a smoldering stare. But he tugs on my hand and leads the way to the kitchen, and I follow.

I wonder if this isn’t how a fish feels when biting a baited hook. Thinking it’s getting one thing and getting dragged into something else entirely.

He’s placid enough, but only in the way mercury is, silently slipping and swirling in constant motion. Some kind of fiery, intriguing energy is pouring off him. I can only imagine what it might be, but I can’t get a read on it at all.

When we get to the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pokes his head in, and I settle onto a stool at the counter. I wonder how many times he’s done this, made something to eat for a girl after they had sex.

A tinge of jealousy sinks in. He’s probably done this dozens of times, even if it’s kind of a novelty to me.

And as crude as he was out by the jacuzzi, he’s being a gentleman now. Maybe this is all a far more sophisticated game than I’ve ever played before.

I try for off-hand, casual. I can be cool about this.

“What would I yell at you for?”

“Because I didn’t let you come.” He doesn’t even sound sorry and this rankles me.

“Didn’t _let_ me?” My voice raises a notch.

The fuck?

So much for playing it cool. I decide to poke back. “Do you even think you can?”

“Make you come?” His hair is slicked back and he looks unfairly attractive as he spreads mayonnaise on a few slices of bread. “Oh, baby. I know I can.”

Goddamn, he’s cocky.

He slaps some deli meat on the bread and cracks his neck before taking a huge bite.

Stunned, I just sit there with my mouth open, vaguely outraged over his blunt proclamation. He’s three bites in before I realize he didn’t make me one, even though he just said he’d feed me. Right when I’m starting to get annoyed, he sidles around the island and holds out his sandwich, an apparent peace offering.

I move to reach for it, and he pulls back. Obviously, he wants to feed it to me with his own hand, and I get the feeling he’s trying to make a not-so-subtle point. My stomach growls.

“Take a bite, Rey. It’s good.” His tongue sweeps over his teeth and I glare at him. As if to coax me, his mouth opens into a cajoling _ahhh_ , and when my teeth sink in, he smiles.

I chew and think about what he just said. He takes another bite, whiskey-colored eyes twinkling with mischief.

He didn’t let me finish on purpose. Asshole. He _does_ deserve to get yelled at.

I narrow my eyes.

It’s all I can do to keep from making a scene. I get the feeling he’d like me getting all worked up over the fact he didn’t let me come. I think his ego would just love it, actually.

Swallowing hastily and eyeing his sandwich, I gripe, “Well then what the fuck?”

Instead of answering, he holds out the sandwich again.

He’s fucking teasing me. Trying to make me lose my temper.

This time I snatch it from him, but he only lifts a brow and mutters something suspiciously like “ _oooh_ , _baby’s hangry_ ” and starts to make another.

Is he fucking around with me? Or does he really just think of me as, like he so vulgarly put it, his little _cum sock_?

And even if he does, why am I so irritated about it? I knew when I called him Sunday night this was going to be, if not a one-nighter, then a short-term affair. 

Still, I can’t help accusing around a mouthful of ham sandwich, “Am I just a game?”

He’s focused on putting together his sandwich, but the faintest quirk of his brow tells me to pay attention.

“Oh, I’d play with you, but I wonder if you can take it, sweetheart.”

“Take it? Take what?”

But he ignores me and takes a bite, looking for all the world like a hungry wolf chowing down.

We sit there in his spectacular magazine cover kitchen and mutually chew and swallow and glare. I’m not entirely sure I want to crawl into bed with him anymore if this is how he’s going to be.

I had a head start on the sandwich and I’m done eating first. In an attempt to take charge of the conversation, I hop off my barstool and hike my towel over my chest with as much hauteur as I can.

Like a hunter sniffing a change in the wind, he pauses and sets his half-demolished sandwich on the countertop.

For some reason, my internal alarm bells start going off, full alert.

He’s not done yet, not by a long shot.

But I think I am.

Deliberately, I avoid looking at the very tempting patch of alabaster skin glinting between the halves of his open robe and I spin, throwing a flippant, “I can finish myself off if you’re not going to!” over my shoulder. “I don’t need your games.”

And when I hear his chuckle, it might as well be a rabid attack dog snarling, so terrifying is the sound. Every hair on my body stands on end, and I haul ass, not _quite_ running, for the relative safety of my room.

I’m halfway up the stairs when a huge hand snags my ankle. My towel slips and I clutch to hold it, but I manage not to trip.

I freeze, knowing instinctively if I try to run for it now, he’ll chase me down.

I sense him move up the stairs to stand just behind me. I don’t turn around to face him, though, not even when I feel the heat of his body against mine.

“Don’t you ever, _ever_ run away from me again.”

_Oh, fuck._

Goosebumps rise on my arms and shins and the back of my neck.

His arms snake around me and gently, very carefully, he takes a trembling hand in each of his, moving my arms like a doll's to pull my towel aside. Softly, he plucks it from my limp grasp and I have a very sharp, eye-opening moment of awareness.

He sweeps a scraggly wet lock of hair from my neck, and I shiver and grit out, “What are you doing?”

“Playing.”

“Playing what?” I whisper.

“Shhh.”

And while I have never felt so acutely in danger, never, not even when I was little, this isn’t the kind of danger I want to run from. I feel his touch slide down the curve of my spine and I move my arms to cover my breasts. I’ve never felt so exposed.

“You’re shaking sweetheart. Are you cold?”

“Yes,” I lie, not quite willing to demand my towel back.

“I’ll warm you up.”

He slides a palm over my hip and I feel his damp hair brush against my neck. Hot, aching bliss spills through me when he breathes against my skin and kisses me. He has a bit of a five-o’clock shadow, and the faintest scrape of teeth and beard is just enough to remind me he’s a grown man, not some ignorant hick boy like the few I fucked back in Niima.

This is not like those other times.

It’s seductive and I want more.

A warm, terry-cloth covered hardness prods at the backs of my thighs as he moves closer, his other hand slipping under my arm and up to cup around the front of my throat.

My breathing has gone all hoarse and I realize I’m practically hanging off him, holding on with both hands. But he won’t let me fall, I know it.

“You know you want it like this.” His grip tightens and he licks a hot stripe over my shoulder.

I groan.

I do, I do want it like this.

Because for fucking once, I’m not worried about shit like paying bills and feeding myself and being too exhausted to drag my vibrator out of its drawer and give myself a half-assed orgasm. Even Kylo seems like a distant problem, something to deal with tomorrow.

Ben’s here now, and yes, he’s an overbearing, domineering, selfish prick, but what he’s doing to my neck and the way he’s touching me is already sending me skipping closer to the edge.

I want to let myself get swept off my feet for once, even if it isn’t like the hearts and flowers kind of romance Finn and Poe have or the whirlwind soulmates connection between Rose and Hux.

With Ben…this is danger and darkness and temptation. It’s nitroglycerin, unstable and explosive. This is liquid fire, the only kind I’ll ever play with willingly.

He knows it, and so do I.

And maybe this is a game for him, some rich person sport where he pretends like he gets to own something – me – and I don’t know the rules, but I want to play, too.

He’s tonguing my neck and his breath is toe-curlingly warm and soft when he breathes, “Say you want to get fucked like a whore. And I’ll make you come so fucking hard.”

Oh, damn, he sounds like he really, really means it. Once again I have an overwhelming sensation he’s going to gobble up every scrap of me, every last crumb.

And I sort of don’t fucking care.

“Okay,” I breathe.

He sighs, and if ever there is a moment when I feel like I’m signing over my soul to the Devil, this is it.

There’s a subtle shift in power as every molecule of air around us rearranges itself.

“Okay, _what_?” he mutters, whisper-soft.

Heat floods my face and neck and chest, probably turning me bright red. It doesn’t matter.

“I want to…get fucked like a whore.”

His fingertips are already dragging over my skin, bluntly manicured nails lightly scratching from the tops of my thighs to my hips and belly, sliding under my arms to cup around my breasts and squeeze.

It’s methodical and thorough, a desensitization maybe. Like how one might calm a panicked animal.

Like how he coaxed Beebee into sitting still so he could pet him.

“And who do you want? To fuck you like a whore?”

“…you…”

His hand sweeps around to cup over my pussy and he works a finger between my legs. He strokes a few times, pushing in deeper each time until he holds his finger up so I can see it glistening. Before I can stop him, he wipes the wetness over my lips like lip gloss.

“Taste it.” I’ve never done anything like this before, but his finger is pushing against my teeth, so I suck it into my mouth. “Don’t you taste good?”

More blood rushes to my face, and I’ve never had anyone be so point-blank erotic like this before.

I think his question must be rhetorical since he’s already got his hands on my hips and is guiding me the rest of the way up the stairs. When we get to the top, he slides his hand into my hair, close to the scalp. He steers me wordlessly to his room like this, holding me by the back of the head.

We get inside, and it’s just as I remember. Sumptuous without being ostentatious, muted, tasteful, and perfectly designed to cater to the master of the house.

The furniture is large and comfortable, built to suit his tall frame, the bed big and luxurious and quite obviously made up in the best of the best linens, and everything is softly lit and impeccably placed to accommodate him and only him.

His grip tightens and he stops before we get to the bed.

He tugs none-too-gently on my hair. He wants me to kneel, so I do. Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at–

“You’ll have to get me warmed up, first. Or nobody’s getting fucked at all.”

My insides are churning with excitement, with anticipation. This is different, with him, the way he’s treating me, the things I’m letting him do. I think I like it.

His eyes have this strange glint in them, glittering black in the low lighting as he shucks out of his robe. From my knees, he’s huge, towering over me, solid, defined flesh over long, elegant bones. His thighs are corded with muscle and dusted with fine black hairs and I feel my cheeks glowing red.

Stripped of all indicators of civilized refinement, he looks like a Viking about to go on a pillage.

He stands there quietly, stretching the tension between us, totally unembarrassed over his nudity, and it throws me off.

Not that he has anything to be embarrassed about.

It’s just…I feel a little in over my head here. The extent of my experience is pretty much limited to a few hasty gropings in the back of a car at the drive-in and a few more very brief, not at all satisfying encounters that were more fodder for late-night giggling with Rose than they were for inspiring passionate fantasies. Somehow, in all my imaginings, I never quite conjured up the one where the handsome billionaire has me naked and kneeling on his bedroom floor.

He’s practically sneering and he sees my inexperience written clearly on my face, I’m sure.

“Open wide,” he grins, all sarcasm. He steps close and so I do.

My heart is pounding and slow, achy contractions pulse through my core, making me clench and shiver. His dick is big and hard and getting bigger and harder, dripping clear moisture from the tip, which I lick at, bracing my hands on his legs for balance.

“Fuck!” he grunts. Evidently, he is not expecting me to do this, so I do it again before letting him push deeper into my mouth.

I’ve given a few blow jobs, but honestly, it’s never been my thing. Pretty much all I know is to be careful of my teeth and to try to not gag.

But, although he smells musky and faintly of chlorine and he tastes salty and earthy, his skin is hot silk on my tongue, so I open wider and let him push in more. One hand holds my head and he fucks halfway into my mouth for a minute before he growls, “Look at me, baby.”

I glance up and try to keep my eyes trained on his as he thrusts gently, an approving expression on his face.

“You like this? My cock in your mouth?”

I moan since I can’t talk, and he seems to get the general idea. This isn’t bad, but I’m horny, too, and I want my turn, as promised.

“We’ll get you to like it even more. I think I’ll make you my own personal little fucktoy.” He smiles, almost fondly, and pulls out. And it’s a good fucking thing he does.

Fury hits me like a ton of bricks, and I bellow “Fuck you!”

His slap comes out of nowhere. The sharp crack and my yelp echo through the room. It’s enough to stun me.

My hand flies to my cheek and I’m so shocked all I can do is stare at him. He’s grinning like a fucking crazy person, like this is fucking _funny_.

“You hit me,” I finally accuse.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want. Whore.”

Adrenaline rips through my belly and down my legs and arms until my fingertips tingle.

He doesn’t even deny it, just watches me like a cat about to pounce. He's playing.

For a few seconds, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to cry. But he caresses my face and I turn my cheek into his hand, not away.

“See what I mean?” He says it casually, but I can tell he's waiting and watching to see what I do. I bite my lips. Tears still sting my eyes, but not because I’m sad. Because I’m paying attention.

I don’t say another word.

“You’re pouting, baby.” His eyes narrow and his voice carries an endless warning.

Something’s rolling off him like smoke, like danger.

It’s intoxicating.

I’ve never been treated like this, ever. Like a thing to be used.

He slapped me and so what? What am I going to do? Call the cops and tell on him? The sting is already fading.

I can see by the look on his face our thoughts are moving on a similar trajectory. I glance at his dick. It’s standing straight up, flushed red and shiny with saliva from being in my mouth. I did that to him. I’m _doing_ this, making him hard.

And he’s making me wet.

There’s a weird push and pull between us. This is a battle for power, control. He wants me to give it up and I think he’s a fucking prick.

Even so. This _is_ a game, and he wants me to play _with_ him. He’s like a cat that toys with a mouse before he eats it, only I’m no mouse. I’ve got claws, too.

At the risk of getting slapped again, I hiss, “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“Yes, I am.”

He bites his lip and sweeps me with an arrogant stare, unflinching at my accusation.

“Get on the fucking bed,” he barks with an imperious lift of his chin.

I move to stand up, but apparently not fast enough, and more adrenaline slips like fire under my skin when he grabs me by the hair and propels me there, throwing me so I land face first. He crawls on top of me before I can wiggle away, and I'm still not sure how I feel about being manhandled.

He’s hot and heavy, a wall of solid muscle bearing down on me, and I’m trying to breathe, briefly wondering if I’m all the way okay with being treated like this.

_Like what if I tell him to stop and he doesn’t? Is he just going to fucking rape me?_

He could if he wanted to, certainly. I can’t move or throw him off.

 _He’s doing this on purpose,_ I think wildly, _blurring the lines._ But at least now we’re on a bed and not the hard stone patio.

He pinches my ass and I squeak in alarm because it hurt but also because…I don’t know why. But he’s already soothing away the sting with a soft touch.

I try to wrestle out of his hold, more symbolic resistance than anything, and, as if to prove how pointless this is, his other hand runs all over me, sliding over the ticklish spot on my ribs and under my arms and between my legs.

“Wet. _Slut_.”

I can’t really move, but I try to roll over so I can face him. He’s not budging, and he wedges his thighs over mine, hooking his ankles over my calves so I can’t kick.

He sweeps my hair off my neck and pins a fistful of it into the mattress. I can’t move my head.

He wants me to react, he’s testing me, I think. None of this is hurting me, not really, and I know we’re dancing closer to the edge.

“Say you’re my slut.”

His forearm is right in front of me and I think about chomping on it.

Before I have a chance to do it – bite him – he flips me over and pries my thighs apart.

His smile is back, like he wants to crack me open so he can see what spills out.

He throws my legs wide and drags the head of his cock over my too-sensitive flesh. I’m so wet for him he slides home in one hard push this time, and it feels so good a scream tears out of my throat.

"Say it. Say you're my slut."

He pulls out, but he’s in my head, and I can’t get him out. When he shoves my knees higher, I arch up. I want him.

He touches me like he owns me, like he already knows what I want, like he knows I’m going to put up a fight because society tells us women aren’t supposed to want this, to be treated like this and he doesn’t fucking care.

He wants me not to care, too. He wants me to come with him, into this strange place where we do whatever we want to each other and I let him fuck me the way he wants to because it’s what I need, more than anything.

"Stubborn girl," he scolds even as he slams back inside. "We'll get you to say it. Yes, we will."

Nothing matters but the hot slide of our salty, sweat-slicked skin. His muscles bunch and flex like hot steel under my hands, and I fall deeper, his savage grunts in my ear and cock buried to the hilt in me, his pelvis rubbing against mine until mind-bending coils of pleasure unfurl and it’s _coming_ and I need more. I lift my hips to meet his.

“So fucking eager for it. _Fucktoy._ ”

Sweat beads on his forehead and suddenly I’m clinging to him. My hands slip over his pecs and around, down his back, and I clutch the meat of his ass as he flexes his hips against mine and pushes in on heavy, cruel strokes, making me gasp.

I try to keep up. He fucks me and scrapes his teeth over my neck and shoulders. Every bite gets a scratch, every moan gets a thrust.

We’re tearing each other apart and somehow I love it, even if I hate him.

And even then, I’m starting to doubt.

“Don’t you fucking come until I say.”

I won’t. But fuck, he feels so good, sliding in and out, hot and hard.

I’m starting to let go, to concentrate on one thing while all the other things fade. I focus on the only thing in the world I want, the way this feels, him fucking me, taking me over.

I’m close, reaching for it, almost there. When he pulls out on a ragged groan, I sob a broken _why_ , disappointed and empty and furious. I arch my spine, seeking what was just there, missing it, missing him, clawing at his arms to hold him closer and bring him back.

“What do you need?” he rasps.

“Fuck me, please.”

I’m begging. I don’t fucking care. I’m the only one here with him and he has what I want, and I’ll do anything for him to give it to me.

“…you need this?”

He’s there, hovering just out of reach, the tip of his dick brushing against me and I tilt my hips, begging, enticing, I don’t fucking care about anything else.

He bends to suck on my nipple and fire whips through me. I whimper and grip his hair and he licks his way up to my mouth and smashes his lips into mine.

"Beg me."

I don’t fucking care. I need to come.

“Please,” I choke. “Please.”

Maybe I’m crying, I don’t know, but when he finally sinks back into me and takes up a savage rhythm, I’m so far gone I don’t give a fuck what he does.

His eyes burn into mine, like a monster’s, like a demon’s. I don’t care.

Right now…right now he’s _my_ monster, and unlike the others, this one doesn’t want to hurt me. 

This one is making me feel so fucking good.

“You close?”

The last time he asked me this I didn’t get to come. If he stops this time, I’ll die, I think.

“Yes…please.” _Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop._

He wraps a massive hand around my throat and pumps harder, grinding into me just right. A languorous, searing warmth is building, I can feel it coming on.

He pulls out again and I can’t scream because I can’t breathe. He’s looking at me, looking into my eyes, seeking something and all I can do is plead.

_Please._

He rubs against me and my whole world quakes. I want him. I need to fucking come.

"Please."

My jaw throbs and my neck hurts, and he slips inside, partway.

"Say it."

I hook my ankles around his hips and drag him close. He doesn't pull away. 

Instead of saying anything, I squeeze down on him, _hard_ and he grabs my ass with both hands and shoves himself up into me and chokes, “Oh, baby, you feel _soooo_ good.”

I do it again and his eyes go all smoky and vague and he attacks my neck and I hang on for dear life when he goes harder, faster, growling like an animal.

He moves me how he wants me to move and fucks me as hard as he wants to fuck me and I need to come, and he’s taking everything I have, all my strength and my concentration and my will, all the unbending iron at the core of me, and he shouldn't even be here, but he’s doing it.

He’s melting it and pounding it and heating it white-hot and shaping it to his own will with the patience of an artist and the command of a master.

Breaking me down and making something new.

“You’re my fucktoy?”

“Yes.”

“Just mine?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll come for me? Like a dirty little slut?”

“… _yesss_...”

“You’re my filthy baby whore, aren’t you?”

“Yes!”

Fire blazes in his eyes.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes,” I sob.

“Then… _come_.”

Just one word, but he doesn’t stop, not this time, he holds me down and pounds against me until everything else falls apart. Who I was and who I am and all of it. None of it matters and he fucking _knows_.

I. Don't. Care.

I grip him with everything I have and wail with my whole heart, “Don’t stop, _pleeease_ , fuck, please, please don’t stop!” and he’s not stopping and it’s happening so hard and fast it drowns me like a tidal wave.

It lasts forever, those filthy-dirty contractions that wipe my mind clean of everything but the stroke of his cock while every particle of my being implodes around him.

He’s right behind me and loud when he comes, louder than I am, probably from a lifetime of not giving a shit about what anyone else thinks. Aftershocks ripple through me and I hang on when he buries his face in my neck and shudders against me, blissed out and gasping.

“Fuck! _Fuck_.”

For a minute or two, we lie together, soaked in sweat. There’s nothing but his ragged panting and my own uncontrollable sniffles and occasional trembling sobs to mark the time.

I never would have expected this in a million years.

Eventually, a weak laugh spills out of me.

“Shit.”

And just like I knew would happen, everything’s changed. And he knows it too when he whispers hotly against my neck, “This is not some cheap fucking fling. You understand?”

“Yeah,” I gasp. We’re both still breathing hard, but a mutual reprieve passes between us.

He relaxes into me infinitesimally but his voice goes lethally soft when he growls, “I mean it, Rey.”

“I know.”

I lie there in the cage of his arms, and a feeling washes over me.

I feel unsafe, as perilous as I’ve ever felt. I think I can guess why but I don’t want to dwell on what it might mean, what being vulnerable with someone like Ben might actually do to me, later, when it all falls apart as it inevitably will.

My mind is telling me I’m as safe as can be. Miles up in a well-secured building, surrounded by every luxury known to man. Hell, if Kylo manages to get past Ben's small army of security guards and breaks in, he’ll have to get through Ben, too, and Ben is built like a very well-muscled brick shithouse. I’m sure he’d give Kylo a run for his money, actually.

I feel suddenly wide awake and after a minute or two, I shift and prod at his shoulder. He’s got me trapped beneath him and my bladder feels full. I try to shove him away and he tenses, all hard angles and planes digging into me at once.

“The fuck are you doing?” he whispers. He sounds offended.

“I have to pee,” I rasp out. I’m sore, my neck is throbbing.

He rolls back a bit so I can get up. My first step is shaky and I almost trip and send myself headfirst into the carpet. I take a few more fumbling steps and he grunts, “You okay?”

I can’t answer. I’m trying to concentrate, peering into the ambiently lit room to make my way into the bathroom.

All of a sudden, I don’t want to turn on any lights because I think if I do, then he’ll see, see what he did to me. Not just my body but the rest of me too, the parts I thought were safe, the parts that make me Rey. I’m afraid he’ll see how easy it was for him to storm in and rip it all to shreds. I’m not anything remotely close to who I thought I was.

I needed this, to be fucked like a whore, used. Choked. Maybe even slapped.

He knew it, too, and I hate him for knowing. But I’m wrung out, empty now. Even my vague hate has burned itself out.

I sit on the toilet and my pussy hurts. I try to pee but nothing’s coming out, like maybe all the muscles and parts down there got broken or damaged or slightly rearranged and I have to figure out how to make everything work again.

I take a breath and try to concentrate when a shadow moves at the door. It’s him.

I don’t know what to say, how to feel after what we just did. So, I sit there and try to make myself pee but I can’t.

He flips on a light but it’s dim, thank God, and the illumination barely reaches me from the other side of the room. He strolls over. He’s naked, hair tangled and sweaty around his handsome face. His cock is still wet but not hard anymore and he comes close and stands in front of me. I can’t look at him until he tilts my chin. I lift my face and he slants me from side to side with a gentle touch, staring down his long, gorgeous nose while he inspects me. Probably looking for bruises. We’re going dress shopping in the morning.

“You okay?” he asks again. This time I detect the barest smile and the corner of my mouth lifts unwillingly.

Fuck, he’s so beautiful.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He whispers and shuffles closer, threading his fingers through my hair and drawing my face close to his dick. He doesn’t need to say anything. I know what he wants me to do.

My heart skips and bewilderment burns in my chest as I take him in my mouth. My hands are braced on my knees so I don’t fall over. He helps, holding himself for me, and when he isn’t hard I can take more of him, all the way until the scruffy hairs at his groin tickle against my nose and brush my lips.

We stay like this for a few minutes in the dead quiet, in the dim light. Me, naked on the toilet trying to figure out if I can remember how to pee while I lick him clean, him, standing in front of me, feet slightly apart, clutching my hair as he lightly moves his hips in an imitation of sex.

He’ll need a few more minutes if he’s planning on fucking me again, and he seems to know this too. It’s okay. This is a game I think I can play.

I think I’d do just about anything for another orgasm like that.

He slips out of my mouth and stares down his nose for another minute or two before turning and strolling back to his room, flipping the light off on his way out the door.

“Don’t be too long, baby. Bed’s getting cold.”

A trickle of pee comes out, finally, and I start to shiver.

I don’t know why. I’m not cold at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we had some drama in the comment section of chapter fourteen. And for those of you not on Twitter, you may have missed it entirely. 
> 
> But I would like to reiterate here and now that kink-shaming of any kind is not tolerated here. If you enjoy reading and/or writing dark fiction, then there is no shame in it, and anyone who says otherwise can fuck the fuck right off. 
> 
> As someone who often, although not always, writes very dark fiction, I understand it is my job to tag my stories appropriately for everyone's safety and because this is what decent human beings do. I don't want anyone reading something triggering, especially if it's preventable. 
> 
> I try really hard to make sure people know exactly what they are getting when they read my stories.
> 
> Beyond that, I try to keep drama to a minimum. I try to ignore the regular hate that gets flung my way because, honestly, it really doesn't get to me. (You may or may not be aware of the higher rate at which darkfic receives hate, judgement, and abuse. But I can confirm that darkfic writers are often treated as pariahs in various social platforms of the fandom, and many readers, while happy to consume our content, are less willing or able to publicly acknowledge they know us. We are, essentially, the Hester Prynnes of the fandom.)
> 
> I've generally been fine with this, since I really don't give much of a shit if someone doesn't like me or what I write. 
> 
> However. I DO give a shit if someone else's judgmental puritanism hurts one of my readers. Nobody should be made to feel bad for liking a story. Fanfiction should be a safe place for all tropes/stories to be explored. ESPECIALLY the dark ones, PARTICULARLY since women in general and many other underrepresented people are not allowed to do so in traditional media because our voices have been systemically repressed and silenced.
> 
> So be warned. I've have enough. If you leave a nasty, self-entitled comment on **any** of my fics, or on any other fics I come across, I will not quietly delete you as I have in the past and let it fade away.
> 
> I will eviscerate you. Slowly, thoroughly, and very, very painfully. 
> 
> Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.
> 
> M'kay, pumpkins?
> 
> M'kay.
> 
> (And that last message is obviously a metaphor and only applies to the .00001% of my readers who act like selfish dingleberries, because by far and large you all are amazing and wonderful and I fucking love you all.)
> 
> Now on to the fun stuff. I can't wait to hear what ya'll think of this chapter. 
> 
> I had a _very_ good time writing it. *winks*
> 
> xoxoxo!


	16. debauch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This [edit](https://vimeo.com/467191755) by [@temo_gemo](https://twitter.com/temo_gemo) is fantastic and you all need to watch it ASAP.

Prophetic art/manip by [@NiniJune](https://twitter.com/Ninijune2)!

# debauch

After I finish in the bathroom, I pad barefoot back to him. The lights are off entirely and despite the floor-to-ceiling windows, the room’s only illumination comes through from the city below. It's enough for me to see. He’s swiped the gorgeous comforter from the bed and I’m glad, since the sheets will be cool and soft and I suspect he'll keep me warm.

He’s in bed, half reclined among the pillows with one muscled arm propped behind his head, a satisfied smirk fixed firmly on his handsome face.

Just when I start to wonder if he has another speed - something other than arrogant lord and master of all he surveys - he crooks his finger to motion me forward.

I stroll to the end of the bed and crawl wordlessly to him, allowing him to settle me into his side and tug the sheet over us both.

My stomach growls and he kisses my hair.

“I didn’t do a very good job of feeding you, did I?” he croons. “Poor, pretty baby.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

The little clock on the nightstand says it’s only eight forty-seven. We got home at around seven o’clock.

Less than two hours have passed and my entire world has been knocked off of its axis.

I wonder if he knows, if he can see what he’s done.

I’m still hesitant to touch him, even if he has no problem putting his hands wherever he wants.

Every pore of my skin is sensitized to his, even down to the way the soft hairs on his shins brush against the backs of my calves. I’m very conscious of the sleek, heavy slabs of muscle over his chest flexing against me, a reminder of his vast physical power held just in check, but very much there under the thick, masculine tang of clean sweat and the smell of me on him.

I get the sense he’s not in the mood to talk. He seems content to let me rest uneasily in the crook of his arm while he runs an idle finger up and down my spine.

“You hungry or _really_ hungry?”

 _Yeah_. I don’t know. Maybe.

“Um…” My voice is all husky from screaming and being choked.

“What sounds good, sweetie?”

A cup of soup. My ratty quilt. A hot bath. A full day of sleep in this glorious bed.

Anything. It’s too overwhelming to decide. So, I shake my head.

“Um. I’ll…have whatever you’re having.” I seem to be saying this a lot these days.

“Hmmm.”

There’s a tension zinging through me. As if, perhaps for the first time in my whole life, I’m awake. Really awake, even if I’m very tired.

He’s not moving to get up and get food, so I snuggle in more, hoping he won’t disturb this quiet tension. And he doesn’t. He just holds me and emits soft, periodic murmurs and pets me until I relax into him, feeling boneless. I’m not sure I could eat right now, even if I was starving. I don’t want to do anything to disrupt this, right here.

I think this might be even more addictive than what we just did a couple of dozen minutes ago.

Cautiously, I settle my palm over the firm warmth of the pectoral muscle by my cheek. His silky underarm hair tickles when I shift my head to his shoulder and I stare blankly at the black hairs around his nipples. He’s not terribly hairy, but neither is he smooth like me. It's an alluring contrast.

“Are you tired?” he purrs, caressing my hair. “You can sleep if you want.”

I do kind of want to, but he doesn’t seem sleepy at all, and I’m too acutely attuned to everything about him, the rise and fall of his chest, the repetitive stroke of his hand, the occasional kiss on my hair, and I don’t know if can fall asleep.

I feel like a provincial country mouse who has stumbled into the Dark Prince’s castle by mistake, and so I shrug and mutter something non-committal.

My eyelids feel heavy. I kind of don’t want to move.

He’s sated, I think. I think it’s safe to close my eyes. Slowly, under his quiet touch, I doze into an uneasy slumber, wondering what this is going to look like come the morning.

I wake up a little disoriented when his warm body slips into bed next to mine. I must’ve been sleeping more deeply than I thought if I didn’t even realize he left the bed again.

In the silence, he kisses my shoulder and I arch my neck and glance to the side, glimpsing the time on the nightstand clock.

_One-eighteen._

Next to the clock is a bottle of mineral water, beaded with condensation. I’m thirsty, I realize. My stomach emits an enormous rumble.

“Hungry? _Mmmh_ , so am I.”

He bites into the flesh of my shoulder and I gasp, more in surprise than pain.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Nothing, I just–” I don’t know if I’m ready for more. “I don’t think I can right now.” I hate the way my voice sounds small.

“Don’t _think_ you can?”

I’m still sore from earlier, but he doesn’t seem to care and his arms tighten around me with the unrelenting pressure of a boa constrictor.

“You don’t need to think.”

Reflexively, I kick my feet in protest, but they’re trapped in the sheets. His hold loosens but only so he can roll me onto my back and straddle my thighs. His weight isn’t too much, but I’m trapped, nevertheless, and he’s making it clear he holds the upper hand.

I lick my lips and stare at his, deliberately keeping my attention on his face, instead of lower, where I can feel his body heat rolling against my crotch.

“ _I_ think you can,” he taunts, sliding his palms down my chest and stomach and over my hips like he owns me.

_Say you’re my slut._

"Let's see."

Softly, but with an unrelenting insistence, he prods against my tender flesh. Even in the dim lighting, I can feel his burning gaze as he absorbs my every expression. There’s greed there, a sort of rapacious appetite I’ve never had directed so keenly on me before.

I’ve never been the subject of someone else’s _want_. Not like this. Nothing this blatant. It’s a little intimidating.

“Stop thinking so hard, Rey. It’s not that complicated.”

His touch turns rough, slightly painful, stinging, and I’m not used to hard sex like this. Still, I part my thighs to give him room. I hiss when he pushes deeper, and I’m already going to be black and blue by morning, but…

But I’ve never been wanted like this in my whole life, not by anyone, _ever_. And this part feels good, even if the rest is somewhat uncomfortable.

He strokes me like he knows my exact thoughts, eventually stretching his body to lie alongside mine and trapping my legs under his thigh.

“I thought I already told you,” he coos against my cheek. “You’re my fucktoy.”

My temper rises to the surface like boiling water, and, like a moron, I try to slap his hand away.

I lunge to the side and _almost_ throw him off, despite his superior size and strength.

“Get off me.”

“Why don't you make me?” His hands manacle my wrists and he effectively wrestles me down until he’s lying on top of me and I can’t breathe. I lurch again and he snickers. He’s enjoying the hell out of this, the twisted fuck.

I’m not sure if I am, but he’s once again got me pinned pretty well in place and that odd tension from earlier returns in full force. Will he do what he did last time, just run roughshod over my feeble resistance? Do I want him to?

Fuck, my adrenaline is flowing again, an amalgamation of excitement and terror as his embrace becomes borderline painful. And I feel it, that vaguely distressing and yet somehow irresistible pull of darkness.

Am I doing this on purpose? Egging him on?

“Maybe you’re _my_ fucktoy,” I grit from between clenched teeth as I try to wrest my hands free.

Instead of pissing him off, this retort merely makes him cock his head and bark a laugh, sharp as a blade in the dark.

He evaluates me as if I’m an interesting canvas he’s considering buying. The same light glints in his eyes as when he looks at his _Kenobi_ downstairs.

Possessive and maybe a touch ruthless.

“I’m not some _thing_ for you to collect,” I scold.

“You should be so lucky,” he teases with a devilish quirk of his brow. “I take very good care of my things.”

I try to tug free again, and his grasp tightens. He grins and I can tell he knows damned well he’s backing me into a corner.

A dark, shadowed corner. I’m not totally sure I want to go there, but he’s not letting up and I don’t think I have much of a choice.

There’s no fucking way I can throw him off, and he’s not budging an inch. Short of ordering him to stop, there’s not a lot I can do. And my heart is pumping so hard, every nerve in my body is alive with the energy snapping between us.

“Why,” he purrs, “are you fighting it so hard? You know I can take whatever I want.”

This is both true and not true. I wonder how close we can waltz to the line before this no longer feels like playing.

“I’m not giving you anything,” I mutter grimly, trying one last time to slide out of his grasp, even as I lift my hips into his searing-hot heat.

An odd light enters his eyes. Switching to a one-handed grip, he crosses my wrists overhead, and it’s a bit of a thrill to witness firsthand how fucking strong he is. I fight him some more to see if there’s any leeway and he doesn’t budge.

I’m breathing rather heavily and he’s not even winded. He’s scrutinizing me again, and it makes my toes curl.

“Nothing’s ever made you come like that before,” he states. His gaze is too penetrating, too omniscient. “Has it?”

“I–”

“You liked it, what I did.”

Stubbornly, I clamp my teeth together. Triumph and arrogance roll off him in waves and as annoying as his effortless ability to restrain me is, he’s right. I did like what he did.

And I’m not going to stop him from doing it again. I can tell he wants to.

I can feel his hard-on pressing into my thigh. I roll my hips again and rub against him and lick my lips.

Before I can answer properly, though, his mouth crashes onto mine with the sudden violence of an explosion. And even though his grip is like a vise and he’s kissing me hard enough to leave bruises, I don’t care. He tastes like fire and power and I want to bathe in this feral inferno forever.

I part my legs to give him room and he rubs himself hot and smooth over my torso until I’m arched halfway off the bed, practically _there_ just from this.

“You insatiable little whore,” he admonishes, chuckling and seizing my face so he can stare into my eyes. “You _liked_ getting used like my dirty cum rag?”

He’s as unrelenting as hot steel and I know he won’t move until I say it. “Yes.”

“Then ask me for what you want.” This he croons softly into my ear as he settles on top of me.

“Will you do it again?” I ask, shy enough to feel warmth creep over my cheeks from being so bold.

He clucks his tongue, dark eyes raking my face.

“You have to ask me the right way, princess.”

I don’t know what he means.

My teeth bite into my bottom lip and he pulls back a fraction, prompting, “Say, ‘Please, Daddy, make me come.’”

I can feel my face heat even in the darkness. I’ve never had a lover tell me to do something so _specific_ before. It’s…not embarrassing, but it’s a vulnerable thing to let someone like him take the reins so wholly, even down to the way I talk and the words I use.

He’s waiting with infinite patience for me to catch up, and unlike when he slapped me earlier for cursing at him, this is almost worse.

He wants to bend me to his will in ways I didn’t realize would make me feel so exposed. Like a pane of glass, transparent and breakable.

But I want him. And I think he's showing me a bit of himself, too. So, I give in and whisper, “Please, Daddy. Make me come.”

His grin turns diabolical and I feel like he’s devouring this moment, eating it up, savoring my capitulation the way he savors that expensive bourbon he likes.

But he’s not done, yet.

“Say, ‘I’m a slut who only wants Daddy’s cock.’”

I giggle. He bites his lip and lifts a taunting eyebrow, mirthfully daring me without words to say it.

“I’m…a slut. Who only wants Daddy’s cock.” I snort, holding back a laugh and wondering just what kind of pornography this man likes to look at.

“Good girl.” A thrill sweeps through me and when a reckless smile lights his face, I fall right over the edge. He smacks a wet kiss on my mouth and growls, “From here on out, the only difference between you and a blow-up doll is your fucking body temperature. Got it?”

He knows the rules and he’s very gently revealing them to me. It’s irresistible, this game. And he’s so handsome and when he’s playing like this, like he’s my god, patiently explaining how I am supposed to address him, and it’s exhilarating. He pinches me for emphasis, and I squeak, “I’m not a blow-up doll!”

“Yes, you are. You already said so. My fucktoy. No takebacks.” His chest is shaking with laughter and I tumble straight into obsession without any hesitation. I can feel myself plunging in, sliding right off the cliff without even bothering to reach for a handhold to slow my fall.

I don’t care how hard the landing is, so long as he drags me with him wherever he goes.

“Ben–”

“Shut up. Fucktoys don’t talk.”

“Okay,” I agree. “Whatever you say.”

“Goddamn, you’re a mouthy brat.”

His grin turns demonic and a ripple of excitement hits me fast and hard.

_Yes._

Carefully, deliberately, he sets my hands on either side of my head. Even as relatively inexperienced as I am, I can tell I’m not supposed to move. I lie still for him, even though I want to touch his hair, his face.

But he’s crawling down, kissing a trail of flames from my neck to my chest to my belly button.

It’s dangerous. This is fire and I’m playing with it.

_Yes. Oh, fuck yes._

Suddenly his mouth is on me, his luscious lips poised as if I’m a tender morsel he intends to eat, slowly. His tongue slides over my sensitive flesh and it feels so good, I arch my hips for more and moan.

He hums in warning, and I try to pay attention but he’s doing the wickedest things and I’ve never, ever felt so decadent. I lift for more, seeking friction and he grips my legs, his remorseless fingers biting into my thighs and forcing me open so he can feast. The noises he’s making are utterly filthy, debauched. I push my fingers into his thick, silky hair and growl his name as he winds me higher and tighter.

He snags one of my hands and rubs it between my legs, licking and tonguing alongside my fingers as he forces me to feel how wet I am, to acknowledge with my own touch how hot and slippery I’ve gone for him.

“Feel what a sopping wet little whore you are.”

I don’t say anything but I whimper. I’m back, back in that place, arriving here faster than before, collapsing into the heated dark.

He’s drinking me in, gulping down every depraved touch, every hungry plea for more, and I can tell he likes this by the ferocious heat rolling off his body.

He pushes my hand aside and opens his mouth, dragging the flat of his tongue over me, his long nose bumping just right, nudging at me and I am going to unravel. He crawls up a bit and I can feel his arousal hanging hot and heavy against my belly, seeping wetness. He drags my hand to it and pumps it up and down a few times, hard.

“You want this?”

“Yes.”

“Then say you’re all mine.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Say _ahhh_.”

I open my mouth and say _ahhh_ , and he spits a thin stream of saliva into my mouth.

“Swallow it.”

I do, and his touch turns incendiary. I can’t look away as he spreads my legs and pushes in on a slow, deliberate assault that unravels my mind.

“You’re my fucking toy.”

“Yes,” I breathe, sliding my palms over the rock-hard biceps caging me in.

“And I can take whatever I want any time I want, can’t I?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m your fucktoy?”

“Yes, you are. And who am I?”

“Daddy.”

This rolls off my tongue without hesitation and he growls in approval, rewarding me with a few savage pumps of his hips.

I would murder someone to have him look at me like this forever.

This is dangerous. He’s dangerous and I’m getting hotter and hotter and I’m going to burn alive, getting wrapped up with him and _this_ , this game, whatever this is. I’m going too deep, too far down a path from which I can never return.

It’s probably a terrible idea, but I don’t care.

Because we want the same fucking thing. Everything is so simple here.

I can see it and I chase it down and catch it, that elusive flicker of darkness in him, like quicksilver, and the harder I try to hold it, the farther I slip into a place I have no business being in.

And there’s no fucking way I’m leaving.

“Fuck!” he grinds out, sinking in again and again, braced on one arm and lifting me to meet him. I can’t see his eyes because he’s looking down, watching himself fuck me but I can feel my body flex and twist against his, hotter, wetter, until he gasps, just as lost as I am.

Ripples of pleasure make me shake and tremble when he drags my ankles to his shoulders and fucks me hard enough to bruise my ass with his pounding hips.

It doesn’t matter. I'm his and he owns me and he can do whatever he wants.

For a split second, I have the strongest sensation again, that he’s a monster, all gnashing teeth and sharp claws slicing through the fragile veneer I’ve always worn so he can get to the real meat – the real me – beneath.

But. I want him to have it, so I arch to tempt him closer, offering myself like a feast on a platter, and I need him to take it, I need it like air in my lungs and blood in my veins. I can smell my pussy on his face.

His mouth falls open and I think he’s close, and I am, too. He grunts, “Ask me for it.”

“Please,” I whimper, “Daddy…make me come.”

In answer, his hips slam into mine and he hisses in my ear, “My good little slut.”

We pause, there on the precipice, in a flash of knowing. And then he starts moving and I plummet into oblivion.

The fall, it lasts forever and I don’t know when I’m going to hit the ground or if I'm going to get burned.

I don’t fucking care if I land in Hell itself, it feels so fucking good.

* * *

_You choose, sweetie._

Rose.

Finn.

I can’t decide.

I have to go to Jakku, have to get my registration forms so I can enroll. If I don’t then I’m going to have to send Kylo another picture of my underwear or someone’s going to die.

Fire.

It’s fire it’s fire it’s fire.

_…shhhhh…_

There’s red paint everywhere, and I can almost see them, my parents…

Don’t look at it. Don’t look.

_Poor, pretty baby._

_It’s a Kenobi._

_I like to…collect pretty things…_

_I thought that was just a legend._

I open my mouth to scream before remembering I can’t.

_Don’t make a sound. Not one sound. He’ll find you, he’ll get you._

But the air goes thick and heavy, and I can’t breathe.

He’s watching.

It’s the monster. The same one. Every time.

_Found you._

The house is bright, glowing. But it is nighttime. I’m running to the boathouse to hide. I have a blanket and something soft, not hard and scratchy like the branches underfoot – _Get her!_ – and a terrible, _terrible_ feeling the creature in the mask is chasing me.

_Run, run._

_Get away._

_Hide._

Behind me, the sky explodes into red and orange and choking clouds of filthy smoke, and I turn and I can’t stop looking at it. Bright flames jump behind the curtains, gobbling them up before crawling out the windows to burn some more. Black smoke pours from the windows and I hear screaming.

Mommy.

The screaming stops and the roof caves in, making a terrible loud noise. I head into the woods. The boathouse is just down the path, only it’s dark here at nighttime, and I think the monster is chasing me.

There he is. Watching the fire.

The monster whirls to look from the fire to me, and I run.

I can hide with the boats and wait until my parents come for me.

Daddy said.

Only they never do.

The only one who ever comes for me is _him_.

Kylo.

She’s perfect, this whole night has been perfect, and she’s a much faster learner than he ever would have hoped.

This gives him optimism for the future, even if nobody can ever know about their link to the past, or, if they ever do suspect, he needs to make sure nobody will ever believe her.

He’ll have her wrapped up so tight, she’ll never break free.

Which is good, since he’s even more in love with her than ever.

_And you love me, too, you just don’t know it yet._

She let him in. And now?

There are no locks that can keep him out, no weapon that can scare him away, nothing to stop him from working his way all the way under her skin and living there forever, just inside, burrowed into the meat of her, where he can hear every thought he feeds her, feel every pulsing emotion, witness every pleasure, savor every pain and relish every little scrap.

An endless feast, if he rations himself with a bit of restraint.

And the best part? _Oooh_ , the best part is how she’s going to spoon-feed him every bite of herself willingly and watch him while he chews it up and swallows it down.

Yes…she’s all his now, and she’s not going anywhere.

He dwells on her initial outrage, the fire in her eyes when he smacked her and how she pretended she didn’t like it.

But she did, oh yes. She loved it. Just like he knew she would. She just needs someone to show her what to do, how to play.

God, watching her fall apart, knowing it was all his doing, smashing her into a million pieces…it was beyond ecstasy. He’s already rousing again, getting hard just thinking about it, how perfect his sweet baby girl is.

As much as he’d love to lie in bed and hold her all night, there’s plenty else he can do while she’s conked out.

Besides, he can wake her in a little while and reinforce his lesson, make sure it really sinks in.

Although thank God, she didn’t make him wait.

_You knew it would have hurt a hell of a lot more doing things the hard way, didn’t you, baby?_

He has all the time in the world now, and a great weight feels lifted from his shoulders.

He’ll need to make sure any resistance she has is leveled to the ground, though, and he’ll need to keep her tied at the end of a string. His string.

He waits until he’s positive she’s out – watching for deep, regular breathing, her pretty pink mouth falling open in a soft snore – before he slips out of bed and throws on his robe. He leaves the bedroom door cracked and makes a quick trip to the hidden safe room.

When he had the penthouse renovated before he moved in, the room was installed by a series of separate contractors who were all sworn to secrecy and bound to ironclad NDAs. On the building's blueprints, the room is depicted as a mechanical closet, accessed by a service corridor for staff use, but the slightly smaller actual closet is a decoy for the hidden safe room, just on the other side. 

Inside the safe room are a vault and a cache of things he’s hoarded from Rey over the past eight months or so. The panties he took after he found her gun, along with the gun itself, copies of all of her important papers and documents, a few still photos from Fett’s investigation, and some other odds and ends – a stray ribbon he stole from her bridesmaid’s bouquet, an empty tube of moisturizer that smells like her, which he found in her trash, her letter from Jakku Community College and the student portal login page that he kept so she wouldn’t be able to sign up for the classes she will never need.

This last bit gives him pause, and he considers how to best ensure she abandons any thoughts of going to school.

_You’re far too good for cheap little Jakku._

_And after this weekend, you’re never going back to work again, anyhow._

He opens the vault and removes the thing he’s been hanging onto for just the right occasion. He bought it months ago using a third-party buyer to avoid gossip.

Perhaps this is more the sort of gift one gives a wife, but if he’s going to make it impossible for her to leave him, then this is also the sort of gift he’ll make sure she can’t live without. It sparkles in the light, much prettier than a handcuff, but ostensibly just as effective.

His eyes fall on the gun and he considers his plan for the millionth time. 

This next part is going to hurt her more than him, but it’s necessary. And she's strong enough to take it.

_It's for the best._

Moving like a ghost, he returns to her, slipping off his robe and watching as she sleeps. A slight furrow mars her brow and he smooths it gently with his thumb until she looks more peaceful.

He’s dreamed so often of the day he could do this, have her here, in his bed, at his fingertips, it’s almost too much.

_You have no clue what Daddy’s going to do to you, baby._

_But you’re gonna love me. Promise._

I wake up to too-bright morning sunshine spilling over my face and feel a brief moment of panic, as I always do when I have _that_ dream.

First, I wonder where Beebee is, before realizing he’s with Rose.

Then I think I have to hurry for work before remembering it’s Saturday.

I drag my hand to cover my eyes and feel a slight weight on my wrist.

Blearily I blink awake and am greeted by a sparkling twinkle. It takes me a second to focus.

He must’ve slipped it on me while I was asleep.

_Oh, wow, are these diamonds?_

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking disgustingly smug and put together – already dressed – as he watches me discover the bracelet I’m wearing.

“What’s this?” I murmur, still hazy.

_Shit, this looks expensive._

“A little something I thought would look pretty on you.” His mouth quirks at the corner and I can tell by the weight of the bracelet there’s nothing trivial about it at all.

“Come on, out of bed!” He has an energy about him, like an excited kid at Christmas. “I’ve got a busy day planned and it’s almost ten.”

“Ten?” Ugh, I never sleep this late. I roll out of bed and nearly trip on the sheet. For a minute I stand swaying on wobbly legs, and I’ve never actually felt until now the term _fucked every which way but loose._

I feel like I was hit by a taxicab, repeatedly, and my back creaks as I gingerly straighten my spine.

He’s watching me, though, and smirking with far too much arrogance. As if he knows damned well it’s his fault I’m all fucked up and sore. And since his ego is big enough, I pull myself together and toddle over to him, plant a kiss on his cheek, and coolly thank him for the bracelet. 

_Oooh, he smells yummy._

I'm tempted to linger but I resist, and, congratulating myself on playing it off with just the right amount of sophistication, I drag the sheet around my chest into a semblance of a toga and stroll for the exit.

If we’re going anywhere, I’m sure I look a disaster and–

“Where are you going?”

“I was…just popping over to the other bathroom. For my toothbrush.”

“You can use mine.”

“Ewww.”

“What, like we haven’t already swapped germs?”

He’s practically vibrating with excitement as he hustles over to me and steers me into his bathroom, again by the back of the head, although this time without the menace of last night’s encounter.

Pressing up behind me, he captures my gaze in the mirror as he sort of pins me against the marble vanity with his hips.

He reaches around, forcing me into an awkward bend over the sink while he stretches for his toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. I shrink back to give him room and watch as he jauntily applies some toothpaste to the bristles.

“Say _ahhhh_.”

Like a lemming, I drop my mouth open instantly. Instead of letting me reach up to take the toothbrush, he traps my arms under one of his and lifts the brush to my teeth.

He’s taller, so he can see what he’s doing in the mirror, and I stand still, mouth open while he scrubs the brush over my teeth until froth builds up. My mouth is filling with minty foam and saliva and my panicked eyes meet his in the mirror. I’m going to start drooling, and I don’t think he’ll like it if any slips out but I don’t want to swallow any, either.

“You need to spit?” he mutters gently. “Go ahead.”

Thankful, I lean forward and spit into the sink and he pops the brush back in and does the other side.

“Am I getting everywhere, baby?” he asks against my hair watching my eyes in the reflection.

Sort of. But I give him a muffled “uh-huh” and stare at the diamond bracelet sparkling on my wrist while he goes on for another minute or two before pulling the brush out of my mouth.

“Spit.”

I spit again and he reaches to turn on the tap and rinse the brush and set it back in the cabinet. He takes a little cup and fills it partway with water and tilts it for me to sip from.

“There. Rinse up.”

I do, swishing it around and spit again. He’s smiling like the cat that ate the canary, keeping me trapped in place for a second or two longer than strictly necessary, smirking as if he knows I’m mildly grossed out over the toothbrush thing and he doesn’t care.

“Let’s see, princess.”

He’s talking to me like I’m a toddler and I can’t help but return his shit-eating grin with a reluctant, beaming smile of my own, unable to resist his charm. 

His gaze falls to the scattered, fingerprint-shaped bruises around my neck and a flicker of darkness enters his expression. I’m going to have a few black and purple marks on my jaw and neck by the end of the day, only he doesn’t look upset at all. He looks smug as can be.

I know I promised I would tell him all about Kylo today, but this is the farthest thing from my mind. He seems almost playful for once, and honestly, I want to procrastinate even thinking about it.

As if reading my mind, he bites his lip and swats my butt and murmurs, “You've been a very good girl. Now. Let’s go shopping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh, I cannot even begin to tell ya'll how excited I am for the next couple chapters. 
> 
> This is your last chance to take a deep breath before I set a lit match to the barrels of gasoline I've placed all around this story. (Speaking of which, can we give a round of applause to NiniJune, who made the absolutely perfect and dare I say prophetic art/manip based on the scant clues I've scattered throughout this fic? )
> 
> xoxoxo!!!
> 
> P.S. I really, really do plan on getting to everyone's replies but I have well over 800 in my inbox and counting, so it is going to take a while. But I need to acknowledge that some of you have left just outstanding comments throughout this story, and I will reiterate that even if I don't get right back to you immediately, I do read these pretty much as they're coming in and they absolutely FEED my inspiration. So thank you. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Every single one of you is absolutely making this fic a real joy to write.


	17. devour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for @pocketfullofdaisies, who, ages ago, put a scene from this chapter on Ben Solo’s mindboard and forced me to ask how the heck she was sneaking onto my computer to know what was coming.
> 
> …mind those tags for recreational drug use as well as the newer ones just added…
> 
> OH! And this [edit](https://vimeo.com/467191755) by [@temo_gemo](https://twitter.com/temo_gemo) is fantastic and you all need to watch it ASAP.

Super-hot moodboard by [@pocketsofdaisy](https://twitter.com/pocketsofdaisy)!

# devour

Shopping is different when the funds are unlimited.

Usually, I spend more time looking at price tags than I do at the clothes themselves.

The thrift store smell never quite gets out of the clothes, either.

Somehow I don’t think this will be a problem when Ben’s car pulls up in front of 3PO Fifth Avenue, one of the more notable fashion houses in Manhattan.

We enter the shop and I sense an immediate alertness buzzing through the air. As if every person in the store is precisely aware of our entrance and, while calm and professional on the exterior, is somehow warning everyone in the vicinity of the fact Ben Solo just arrived.

It’s subtle, but I notice staff scurry to the back as we’re greeted.

I’m not sure how shopping works here. Instead of rack upon overcrowded rack of mismatched clothes, there’s lots of floor space with a few mannequins and a large, tufted, circular bench in the center of the floor.

I eye a cute dress and wonder if I have the nerve to go check it out, but Ben is taking my hand and leading me to the back.

“You’re in luck, sir. Signore Antonio is here today and he will assist you personally.”

“Oh, good. We need something special. For tonight.”

Meekly, I let Ben guide me past row upon row of very pricey-looking clothes to an extravagant back room where we are greeted by a harried-looking man with little wisps of white hair coming off the sides of his otherwise shiny bald pate. He wears round-rimmed glasses that accentuate his wide, unblinking eyes and Ben is uncharacteristically reserved.

He’s being respectful, I realize, and it rather floors me, since I’m usually only treated to his arrogant, domineering persona.

The man with the round glasses must be Signore Antonio, and he takes my coat and strokes the sleeve almost lovingly, muttering, “Very nice coat. Excellent.”

I stutter a thank you and the little man bustles off, smirking. Ben leans close. “That’s the designer. Signore Antonio. He, ah, made that coat.”

“Oh!”

I rapidly put it together. He’s not just staff, he’s a super famous designer. I’ve seen his name on billboards in Times Square and magazines. I should have known. But how would I have? Once again I feel like I’ve been thrown in the deep end and the only floatation device in sight is Ben.

“Thank you for telling me.”

_So I don’t make an ass of myself._

I’m nervous and off-kilter, but someone brings me a flute of champagne and before I know it, we’re in a private area ostensibly reserved for special customers like Ben. An assistant hustles me into the fanciest dressing room I’ve ever seen, while Ben is served Turkish coffee in a ridiculously tiny cup and settling into a posh sofa just on the other side of a privacy screen.

I’m allowed to sip some more champagne and someone else bustles in to help me out of my clothes. I'm wearing the ones Ben bought me for Christmas, thank goodness, so I don’t feel like too much of a plebeian, at least until I’m stripped down to my plain cotton panties.

I wish I hadn’t worn my good underwear set to work yesterday, so I could have it on today and feel a little less…awkward.

But out of pride, I force myself not to be overly modest and reveal what a novice I am. These people are all very professional and they see nude women all day long and while it’s a novelty to me, being practically naked in front of perfect strangers, it’s also obvious I won’t be able to try on dresses if I’m still clothed.

For his part, Signore Antonio’s attention remains fixed firmly on my figure and my posture, which I instinctively hoist into something resembling a more rigid version of myself. His clinical approach eases me a bit, and he remains utterly impassive except for when he first catches a glimpse of my bracelet. Here, he takes my wrist in both of his hands and brings the jewelry close to his eyes, peering at it for a minute before muttering, “Excellent! This is excellent work. We will find something to match.”

I’m not exactly sure how one might go about “matching” a diamond bracelet to a dress, but clearly, the man is inspired. I’m glad he doesn’t appear to be taking his self-appointed task too literally when I’m presented with a variety of colors and lengths of gowns that are brought in by some of the other staff.

And then, in between tiny sips of champagne, I’m bustled into dress after dress. They’re all gorgeous and they do things for my figure, things that make me conscious of why a man like Ben Solo might be interested in a woman like me.

With each gown, I flit between the screened area to where Ben waits. Here, I stand like a mannequin while he scans me up and down and mutters to Signore Antonio about details like hemlines and bias cuts and necklines and the various alterations that will need to be made so it “fits” properly.

To me, the dresses fit fine, but none of them are quite right, at least according to Ben. Signore is as patient as a monk while Ben continues to shake his head with every dress until we find the right one.

It takes hours, but eventually, I emerge, slightly tipsy by now and only weighted down by my extravagant tennis bracelet and the knowledge that I will have to walk out of this store on my own two feet or embarrass myself and everyone else if I'm noticeably drunk before lunchtime.

But finally, I’m gowned in a light-as-air, gorgeous confection that somehow makes me feel like a little girl wearing a grown-up dress and at the same time a sophisticated woman wearing a little girl’s frock. It’s pink and cut asymmetrically, and the skirt is lined with ruffles and puffed out while the bodice is fitted tight to nip in at my waist. I’ve never looked so feminine nor felt so pretty, and I practically skip out to Ben. This is the one, and I can see by the gleam in his whiskey eyes when I do a pirouette, he thinks so, too.

Still, he runs a critical eye over me for almost too long before he mutters to Signore, “Take up the hem an inch and a half,” even as Antonio nods and agrees, “Yes, yes the hem goes up like so…”

Signore stands behind me and raises my skirt a fraction and Ben nods in agreement.

“ _Si._ This is the one.”

“Very good, sir! We will have it couriered over this afternoon. I’ll make the alterations myself!”

Signore bustles away, and I wonder if we’re done, but it quickly becomes apparent I’m to keep the dress on while several assistants bring in box after box of shoes, all of which must be tried on and evaluated and cast aside only for the next pair.

Ben makes me model every other pair for him and gives each one serious consideration as if this is the most important decision in the world.

And maybe it is.

I wonder if perhaps he was not allowed to play with dolls as a child and now he’s making up for it somehow.

Or maybe this is just the result of every single person he encounters overindulging his every whim all his life.

Either way, his amusement is infectious as he bosses everyone around, including me, but his eyes are smoldering hot and my belly ripples with eager little flutters under his gaze when we find some sparkly, champagne-colored things that are far too exquisite for me to manage for more than a few minutes at a time.

Antonio comes back in with a measuring tape between his teeth, holding a spool of thread that exactly matches the color of my dress.

I stand still and let him pin the hem. I’ve never felt so giddy or spoiled or excited until Ben says lightly, “And after this, lingerie. How’s that sound, princess?”

I’m sure if I hadn’t already melted under the scorching heat in his gaze this morning, I’d sink into a puddle when he gives me a wicked wink and licks his chops as if he can’t wait.

Neither can I if I’m being honest. I’d let him gobble me up here and now, every bit, just so I can watch.

Truthfully, by the time we are almost done lingerie shopping, I’ve forgotten entirely about Kylo. So when I get a text from him while I’m naked in the dressing room at Mustafar, it takes me a full minute to realize it’s him again.

_I can’t stop thinking about you._

_How about another pic? That last one was hot._

He’s added a few flame emojis to this message and fear pours through me like ice water.

His threat is clear, but if I keep caving to him, he’ll never leave me alone.

I shouldn’t even reply. I should tell Ben. I need to trust him, or Kylo is only going to get worse.

My phone dings again as I’m slipping on a silky changing robe instead of donning a red lace teddy that I’m positive will get Ben’s pulse going.

The assistant pokes her head in and I jump guiltily and nod to the red one to distract her. “That one, but…can we make it a surprise?”

She grins and says, “I’ll wrap it up with the others."

Once I’m alone again, I read what Kylo sent.

_Are you making me wait? Bad idea._

Making a decision, I send Kylo a message – _leave me the fuck alone, asshole_ – and slip out of the dressing room, nearly sick to my stomach.

But my decision is made.

Ben is lounging, waiting for me, and he tucks his phone in his pocket when I appear, not as he expected, wearing the next piece of lingerie to model for him, but just the robe.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he croons when I crawl into his lap.

He smells good, and he’s all warm muscle pulling me close and practically reeking of wealth and power and everything I need.

The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Daddy? Can I get a new phone?”

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and rumbles, “Sure you can, sweetheart. You can get anything you want. But you need to tell me why.”

I take a deep breath and peek at him through my eyelashes. He’s watching me, waiting patiently for me to explain, and it would be terribly unfair to keep the truth from him when he’s been nothing but generous.

“It’s…because my stalker has this number and he texted me yesterday and again just now…and…” I feel my lips tremble and tears burn my eyes. “I’m scared he’s going to do something to Rose or Finn.”

He told me not to tell. He said he’d do terrible things if I ever told.

“Tell me.”

And so I do, right there in the glamorous dressing room of this internationally-famous lingerie boutique. The staff seems to magically know not to interrupt us, and it only takes about ten minutes or so for me to spill it all, to explain about Kylo and the nightmares turning out to be real and the escalating feeling of being watched over the past months.

I get Ben caught up to the part where I called him on Christmas Day and he’s remained very quiet, listening to everything without interrupting.

And then we get to the part about what Kylo made me do yesterday and I can’t stop crying. I bury my face on his shoulder while he strokes my hair and mutters comforting nonsense.

Saying everything out loud makes me feel terribly vulnerable. But better. As if laying my burdens on his broad shoulders eases the load a bit, even though I’ve never trusted anyone in my life with what I’ve told him. Never.

“You’ve been just terrorized, haven’t you?” His sympathy is too much and it takes me a few minutes to settle down. “Of course we’ll get you a new phone. And I’ll put my guy on it, figure out who’s watching you.”

“And what about Rose? And Finn?” I hate to even ask, but for them, I can humble myself. Ben Solo can afford it, surely. “You can have someone watching out for them? Until we’re sure it’s safe?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he soothes. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, feeling infinitely relieved, especially when Ben shoots me a crooked smile. He's not even angry I sent a picture of my underwear to some stranger. Part of me thought for sure he’d be mad with jealousy over that bit, and I almost didn’t tell him. But I'm glad I did.

If this is more than a cheap fling like he said, then I want to have honesty between us, no secrets.

“You feel like a little more shopping?” he asks softly. “Or does my princess need a nap?”

I sigh, content and emotionally drained. I’ve never felt so safe in my life. “Whatever you want…”

I give him a grin and he tickles me until I shriek with laughter.

“We’ll finish up here and you can have a nap before your party. And I’ll make some calls. Okay?”

“Okay.”

  
I feel a million times better after a long nap and a light dinner, and now we’re here at the office New Year's Eve party, held in one of the smaller ballrooms of a hotel a few blocks from Rose and Hux’s neighborhood. It’s a smallish gathering, and mostly lawyers and social-climbing clients, but the music is pleasant and the booze is free-flowing.

We’ve only just arrived when Ben corners me at the buffet and sneaks a hand up the back of my skirt. Nobody can see a thing. The view is blocked by the punch bowl, and so long as I don’t move, no one would ever guess he’s currently pushing his finger into the crack of my ass.

“Ben!” I hiss. I’d swat his arm but my hands are full because I’m halfway through filling a plate. He prods some more and I feel a distinct pressure against a part of me I’m fairly certain shouldn’t be exposed anywhere near a buffet table.

“Stop it!”

“I think I’ll fuck this hole tonight. You’ll be dripping cum for a week,” he mutters against my neck, even as he smiles and lifts his glass to Hux and Rose who just enter the room.

“Don’t be gross!” I mutter. “Besides, I don’t want to…do _that_.”

Honestly, I don’t think I’m ready for anal sex. I’ve heard stories and I’m not too keen to find out if they’re anywhere close to true.

“Oh, I wasn’t asking for permission, sweetheart,” he growls. “I was stating a fact.”

But his hand slips free as Hux and Rose approach, and I set my plate on a nearby table, hurrying to scuttle Rose out of earshot so I can show her my bracelet without Ben looming.

I catch him shaking Hux’s hand…ugh, with the _same_ hand. He shoots me a filthy smirk, the devil, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

But my attention turns to Rose who whistles when she sees my dress and catches the glance between me and Ben.

“Wow. You look hot. Why is your face all red?”

I can feel my cheeks glowing and, under the pretense of hugging her, I mutter, “He just told me he wants anal.”

“Don’t take anything less than a house in the Hamptons for that,” Rose advises candidly.

I can feel Ben’s eyes on me and I force myself not to look at him, or I’ll probably get scorched to a pile of ashes.

But Rose is already moving on, taking my hand, and pulling my wrist close so she can examine my bracelet. “Fuck me, Rey. Do you know how much this probably cost?”

I shrug and try to sound casual. “Ten-thousand dollars?” I guess. I don’t fucking know.

Rose’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “No.”

My heart starts pounding.

“More?” I hiss. “What like…twenty thousand?”

I watch her lips move as she counts the stones circling my wrist.

“There are thirty diamonds!” I tell her, trying to jerk my hand away. But she’s tenacious.

“Rey. These are probably at least a carat each.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. Fuck. That sounds _really_ expensive.

“Fifty-thousand?” I guess, starting to panic.

Rose snorts, “Try a hundred and fifty thousand. Probably closer to two. Maybe more if this is set in platinum.”

_Two? Hundred thousand? Dollars?_

I blink at her, stunned. I can’t conceive of paying so much money for a single object. And I’ve just been wearing it around all day, not even bothering to take it off when I eat or wash my hands or use the bathroom or anything.

A hundred and fifty thousand, closer to two is more money than I could hope to earn in years of working for Canady and Hux. That’s enough for a down payment on a small apartment. In a decent neighborhood.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Rose’s face breaks into a grin.

“Rosie, what do I do? I can’t…keep this.”

“Oh, yes you can.”

“Rose.” I don’t have words to articulate what I’m thinking. But with Rose, I don’t need any. Or, so I thought.

“Rey.”

She looks so happy for me. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking this is it, the odd one out finally found a place of her own. Rose and Finn found their fairy tale princes and they’ve always secretly worried about me. Probably more than I realized if the look of relief on her face is any indication. My realization is reinforced by her next words.

“I think…you might have landed yourself a whopper.”

“What do you think he’ll give me if I let him do anal?” I giggle, trying to cover my rising alarm.

Ben’s coming this way and he looks dangerous and possessive and handsome and suddenly my color is back and I can feel myself blushing.

Rose, bless her heart, discreetly says, “Whatever you fucking want.”

She flashes Ben a radiant smile and excuses herself, leaving me alone with him. He leads me to the dance floor, and my belly somersaults.

This is the part that feels like a fairy tale, this and the way he held me earlier in that dressing room while I poured my soul out to him.

I’m not a great dancer, but I managed to learn a box waltz in tenth grade P.E. and Ben is a generous lead, seemingly understanding of my lack of education in the areas where he’s obviously been well-trained.

“I didn’t realize this bracelet was so expensive,” I say eventually.

“I told you this wasn’t a cheap fling.” He spins me, scowling. I wonder if he’s sensing my reticence. 

“I know. I just wasn’t expecting you to mean it so literally.”

His gaze softens a bit and he dances me around the floor in silence for a few minutes.

Those amber-hued eyes flicker over me with more heat, and a wave of nervousness crashes into me. Once again, I am strongly wondering why the hell someone like him wants anything to do with a fuck-up like me. Why he would give a nobody a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bracelet.

I pull back, a tiny bit. Insecure. He catches the gesture and moves us to the side of the room with the grace of a dancing master.

“You okay?” he asks, too perceptively.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just have to pop into the ladies’ room.”

I need to catch my breath. And try to figure out what to do. This is too overwhelming. It’s moving too fast and nobody seems to want to slow it down, not even me.

He pulls my hand to his lips with such elegant grace, I feel flustered, swamped.

His eyes crinkle at the corners and my knees go weak.

“Hurry back. It’s almost the New Year.”

The bathroom is quiet, although Phasma’s in there. I ignore her. She’s smoking a joint and blowing it into the air vent and watching me like a cat.

I hover over the toilet and pee and she starts talking, her brisk accent echoing through the bathroom.

“Looks like you caught yourself quite a prize.”

I pretend not to hear the spite in her voice. Or maybe it’s just jealousy.

“Are we even going to see you at the office on Monday, I wonder? Or are you just here to show off? Moved on to bigger and better things?”

Oooh. Bitterly jealous.

But having the advantage over her doesn’t feel as great as I thought it would, somehow. I sigh and flush the toilet, slipping out of the stall to the sink farthest from her.

“Of course I’ll be there Monday.”

She humphs and stubs out her joint, and I carefully wash my hands and dry them. I watch her, surreptitiously wondering why she’s so chatty.

She pulls a compact from her sparkly purse and a little vial of white powder and my interest perks up.

I watch, fascinated as she takes a little blade and begins cutting the powder into thin lines on the glass mirror of her compact.

I’ve experimented with drugs before, but I never would have pegged Phasma as a cokehead. Still, she takes a rolled-up twenty-dollar bill and snorts up one of the lines right then and there before noticing me avidly watching.

“Want some?” she asks, wiping her nose with an elegant, well-practiced sniff.

I haven’t snorted coke but three times in my whole life, but suddenly I kind of do want to.

I can’t explain it. I just want to feel reckless and rebellious and…I don’t know.

It would certainly take the edge off. Maybe ease some of the pressure I’m feeling from Ben and…

“Where’d you get it?” I hedge, moving closer.

“Oh, it’s safe. Canady gets it for me. Although I’ve been warning him for ages he needs to lay off. He’s got heart problems, you know.”

I didn’t know, but this news doesn’t surprise me at all.

Mostly I’m interested in Phasma, though. She’s never volunteered a single personal detail about her life until now. She’s treating me like an equal, I realize, sort of gob-smacked.

I wonder how much of this sudden respect is because I showed up tonight on the arm of one very powerful billionaire.

I wonder if she’ll think I’m snubbing her if I refuse her dubious offer.

She rolls her eyes, all sarcastic charm. For a brief instant, I can see why someone might be attracted to her aloof coolness. She holds out her rolled-up twenty.

“Lighten up, Johnson. It’s New Year's Eve. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

I’m practically bouncing on the way out of the ladies’ room. I was in there for a while and I’m fucking flying.

Phasma gave me a tab of molly after the coke and we ended up swapping stories about Canady for way too long.

For a few seconds, I have an acute awareness of being totally alone, even here in the midst of this party. A wild thrill of terror races through me and I wonder if Kylo has any idea where I am.

Even if he does know, Ben’s security team is keeping an eye on us, discreetly. He assured me right after I woke up from my nap.

Everyone I care about is safe and Kylo’s full of shit, I decide.

Ben is suddenly right in front of me.

_Shit. Shitshitshit, I’m high._

I’m bobbing lightly on the balls of my feet in my fancy sparkly shoes and I’ve lost track of time, but the lights dim and people are counting.

“I was worried you were going to miss the countdown,” he purrs, staring at me all too omnisciently.

All around, people are clapping and cheering and balloons are dropping from the ceiling, the one extravagance of the office party that Canady always springs for. It’s too bright, too loud.

But I’m not watching the balloons or anything else but the honeyed fire in Ben’s eyes as he drags me close and presses his lips to mine.

My eyes fall closed and I’m sailing high in the sky, all the way to the stars.

His breath smells like punch and I smile against him and push my fingers into his hair. Fuck he feels _amazing_ and I wanna screw his brains out. I’m horny. Maybe we can do it in the car or the elevator or–

I trace a finger over the soft linen of his tux shirt and his eyes narrow. I’m squinting, too, since the lights in here are super-bright.

He murmurs into my mouth, “You are high as a fucking kite. What did you do?”

I laugh and I feel like a million dollars and I want to _dance_.

“I…”

The grip on my arm tightens into a vise and I gasp when he wrenches on me, silently demanding an answer.

He’s furious.

Oh.

I swallow. He does it again, giving me a rough shake.

“Ow!”

“What the fuck did you do, baby girl? Drugs?”

He’s glaring, stern and clearly livid and I can’t find words so I shrug and admit, “Nothing. Some coke.” He shakes me again. “And a tab of molly.”

“From whom?”

“Um. The coke was Canady’s. Phasma gave it to me.”

My heart shrinks as his dark head turns and sweeps the room until he sights in on her. Ugh, and she’s talking to Canady who eyes me with too much interest even though Ben is right fucking next to me.

“…dead.”

_Wait. What?_

I smack him because his grip is too tight and my arm hurts, but if anything, he gets colder, harder, and steers me out of the party to the coat check. I didn’t even get to say goodbye and Happy New Year to Rose or Finn.

“Wait!”

Wordlessly, he pulls our coat tickets from his pocket and slaps them on the counter, growling, “Shut the fuck up.”

With a violent heave, I jerk free and bellow, “ _You_ shut fuck up!”

The coat check girl’s eyes widen as she passes our coats into Ben’s outstretched hand.

His eyes briefly flicker over the girl and she turns and disappears into the back, hastening away from danger, which is now clearly pouring off of Ben like a radioactive chemical spill.

He looks like he wants to murder me. I take a step back.

But he only stalks forward and, with brutal efficiency, forces me into my coat, then hauls me into the elevator, down through the lobby, and out to the frigid sidewalk, where his car is magically waiting for us.

Mitaka stands by the passenger door and waits until the last moment to open it, presumably to keep the heat in. I stutter to a stop and try to pull away.

I don’t want to go in there. I’ll fucking fly home and Ben Solo can fuck off.

Then I realize we live together and I start laughing, bending over double. A hard hand clamps down on the back of my head, ripping a few hairs from my scalp and making me shriek and snort, half-laughing and half-outraged.

“Get in the fucking car.”

“Don’t fucking touch me, asshole!” I can’t wrangle out of his grip and I’m starting to panic. Off to the side, Mitaka is not moving to help at all. Nobody else is around, and I’m starting to realize even if I run I won’t get far in these stupid heels.

I want to laugh again at the absurdity of it all, but Ben rudely pushes my head down and shoves me inside. I land hard on the seat, knocking my shin against the metal doorframe before scooting to the other side of the car as fast as I can. Bracing a hand on the roof he leans in and barks, “Stay here.”

His eyes drill into mine and my heart flips over.

I scramble to unlock the opposite door, but it must have the child-safety locks engaged or something because it doesn’t open.

Scowling, I flounce back into the other seat, the one closest to him. But Ben isn’t moving. His scowl is enough to freeze me and sheer threat rolls off him as he snarls, “ _Stay_.”

Before I can stick a foot out the door, he slams it shut and I hear his muffled order to Mitaka, “If she leaves this car without me…”

His unspoken warning chills me even more, and I watch through the rear passenger window as he turns and marches back into the building, for what or for how long, I have no fucking clue.

The privacy glass between the back and front of the car is up and I scramble around, looking for the button to slide it down. I can crawl over the seat and get out through the front.

Mitaka slips into the driver’s side and cracks the window.

“I wouldn’t try it, miss,” is all he says before rolling the glass back up and leaving me trapped in the back of Ben Solo’s town car like a caged fucking animal.

A long time passes and my high is starting to wear off. I’m getting tired and truly frightened.

But he returns and shoves me in when I try to scramble for the exit. If anything, he’s gone colder, scarier.

“What did you do?” My voice is all quivery and I hate it.

He turns his stare on me and adrenaline rolls through my chest.

Dangerous. He’s fucking dangerous.

“You can’t keep me trapped in here.”

“The fuck I can’t.”

“Everyone just does whatever you say? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You get off on making people lick your boots?”

Obviously, this is a metaphor since he’s wearing very handsome Italian leather shoes, not boots. But a terrifying calm washes over his face, an absolute, unshakable confidence.

“I get off,” he bites out each word, giving it its own inflection for emphasis, “on making you lick whatever I put in front of your stupid whore mouth. Now shut the _fuck_ up.”

I huff, but I really probably shouldn’t have done that cocaine because I am rapidly running out of steam.

But sweet, sweet molly is there to catch me when I start to fall and another wave of pure euphoria washes over my senses.

It only takes ten minutes for Mitaka to drive us uptown to Ben’s building and five minutes later we’re in his penthouse.

Fury is radiating out of him and I don’t fucking care.

“What is your fucking problem?” I snap, watching the way his jaw flexes while he unbuttons my coat and drags it off me. His own is already tossed on the floor since he never bothered to put it on.

This should alarm me, the fact that he’s being so careless. He usually takes meticulous care of his things, and mine, by extension.

He reaches for me and I dance away, feeling invincible.

“My fucking problem,” he grits out, “is that I don’t particularly feel like having a coke whore for a girlfriend.”

My head is spinning and I don’t know what to react to first, being called a coke whore or his girlfriend, so I spin and run for the living room.

I can feel him stalking behind me and I know I’m not going to get very far.

Part of me is wildly excited at the unchained ferocity in his gaze. He looks almost gleeful that I’m putting up a fight, the crazy son of a bitch.

“If you want to play with drugs, all you have to do is ask.”

“I don’t have to fucking ask your permission. You don’t own me.”

I can see this infuriates him more than anything else I’ve said, yet.

With terrifying calm, he swipes a side table to the floor for dramatic effect. The crash jolts me into action and I back away some more, wondering how much farther I can go before I run out of room.

That tangible energy that was rolling off of him last night, when he caught me on the stairs after I tried to run away, it’s back, stronger than before, although part of this might be from the drugs.

Okay. Maybe mostly from the drugs.

“You sick fucking bastard,” I pant. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

We both know how this ends.

“I don’t think so, baby girl.”

He’ll get me, and I’ll give in, let him catch me. Let him tame me. For a price.

The weight of two-hundred thousand dollars on my wrist reminds me of how high the stakes can go.

He lifts a hand and motions me to him with a crook of his finger.

“Come here.”

It’s what I want, too. I think.

This is foreplay. I back up a step, only to feel the cold touch of glass at my shoulder blades.

Fuck. Out of room.

He sees it and flashes his teeth, coaxing, “Come to Daddy.”

There’s no mistaking the simmering violence just under those velvet tones.

_Don’t you ever, ever run away from me._

I can’t fucking breathe, let alone run. I’m momentarily paralyzed, absorbing the delicious menace oozing off him, frozen by the feral glitter in his eyes as he prowls close and snags me lightning-fast. He spins me around, smashing me face-first against the window.

My shin throbs from where I banged it in the car, and I try to stay upright while he savagely rips the zipper of my dress down my back and shucks me out of it like stripping an ear of corn.

The softest touch traces over the garter belt holding up my stockings before he twists my arms behind my back.

“Move.” His breath on my neck is hot. Like fire.

My limbs feel like jelly, but I start walking, almost tripping on my stupid feet. These fucking heels aren’t doing me any favors and it’s hard to fucking stay upright with my arms behind my back, especially when we get to the stairs.

But he marches me up them in silence and inevitably to his room where he shoves me none-too-gently to the floor.

Every molecule of air is charged with a strange amalgamation of terror and raw lust.

Danger is boiling out of him, and something else, something I don’t know if I can handle.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, belatedly realizing that doing drugs is fucking stupid even if I feel like I’m floating.

“What, for the drugs? That’s okay. I took something too.”

“You did?” I squeak.

“Yeah.”

“At the hotel?” Is that what he was doing? Drugs?

“Crawl over here and help me with my shoes, baby.”

In a daze, I move across the floor and crouch in front of him, lifting the fabric of his pant legs to untie each of his shoes, sliding them off his feet, one by one, before peeling off his socks, too.

He has huge, gorgeous feet and I sneak a peek up at him from where I’m huddled on the floor, waiting for him to tell me what to do next.

He licks his lips. “Take off the bra.”

Fumbling, I reach back and try to unsnap it. My hands are shaking and it takes me a few seconds, but I get the damned thing off, and when I do his gaze burns hot enough to spark a blaze.

“What drugs did you do?” I ask.

I don’t notice until he strips off his tux jacket the spatters of blood on the pristine white of his tuxedo shirt.

“Whose blood is that?” Vague dread ricochets through me.

What did he do at the party while I was trapped in the car?

“You have bigger things to worry about right now, sweetie.”

He drops his pants and kicks them aside. Fuck, he has a monster of an erection, heavy and jutting straight up, veins already popping, head engorged and nearly purple. Part of me, the part that’s about to get pounded into oblivion, recoils a little.

Instead of jumping on me, like I half want him to, he moves to his nightstand and takes out a bottle of what must be lube.

And a condom. The foil packet crackles as he rips it open with his teeth, and shivers rocket up and down my spine. There’s something very sexy about the deliberateness of what he’s doing, how methodical he’s being. I’m mesmerized as I watch him roll a condom down the length of his dick.

He’s clearly planning on following through on his earlier promise.

I think the molly is doing its job quite well because I want his hands on me. Every pore of my skin is sensitized, and I'm hyperaware of everything, down to the faint scuff of carpet under my butt.

“Take off the thong.”

Victory is already spilling out of him. If the shit-eating smirk on his face means anything.

I’m still on the floor and I wriggle around, trying to figure out my complicated underwear. He chuckles.

“Never mind.”

Belatedly, I remember what Rose said, and I perk up and push my tits out.

I lick my lips, unable to tear my gaze from his dick as he herds me back, making me scoot on all fours towards his bed.

“I’ll let you do anal,” I whisper, “…for a Lamborghini.”

I don’t even know how to fucking drive. I don’t fucking care. I want to see how deep this game can go.

“ _Let_ me? I thought I already told you I can take whatever I want.”

“You can. But I want a Lamborghini. A red one.” I say it recklessly, knowing I’m in no position to make demands.

Cautiously, I glance up, and he’s grinning. He leans down and hefts me under the arms and flips me ass-up, knees parted, feet hanging off the edge of the bed. I rake my cheeks over the silky smooth comforter. It feels good.

He coos, “A _red_ one?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought I already explained the right way to ask Daddy for what you want.”

Roughly, he grabs me by the hair and smashes my face into the covers. His fingers are prodding, shifting my thong out of the way, and I feel a warm burning stretch. He pushes partway in and I have to suck in a lungful of air at the slight sting.

“Please, Daddy, buy me a red Lamborghini.”

He presses deeper and I try not to squirm, although I whine in discomfort.

A soft curse escapes his lips and a wave of bliss washes over me.

Of _power_. Of knowing I’m the only thing in the world he wants.

I relax, or try to.

“Lambos are trash,” he informs me. His voice is all husky and low and when he pushes inside further and gasps in obvious pleasure, wild flutters cascade through me like falling stars. “We’ll get you something good. A Bugatti. A Silencer.”

That’s a thirty-million dollar car. Thirty fucking million dollars. I suck in a deep breath and tentatively bear down a little. He groans, a thick, decadent sound.

He likes this.

_Thirty million dollars._

“You,” he mutters, starting to thrust, in and out, slowly, “are an _expensive_ little whore, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

There’s a brief pause, and more lube dribbles down the crack of my butt, making me hiss. It’s cold and he’s big and this feels if not unpleasant then very odd. But then he really starts fucking and I squirm in pain. As if he’s been expecting this, his fingers bite into my hips, locking me in place. He goes harder, making me yelp into the mattress with every thrust.

The coke is wearing off but the molly is still very much there, even though this is getting painful. But then I think about the Bugatti he's going to buy me and arch my back for him, making him grunt and grab a handful of my ass.

_Not a nobody. I'm his whore._

The blood under my skin feels warm, practically buzzing with euphoria and he’s breathing heavily, fucking me harder, deeper, muttering things I don’t catch all the way and it doesn’t fucking matter if it hurts because all I have to do is lie here and take it, lie here and feel warm rivers of bliss flooding over me. I just have to be one thing.

At one point, he pauses and reaches for a bottle of water on the nightstand, left there by his omniscient staff, apparently, I hear him gulping some of it not bothering to pull out, not even when he drags me onto all fours and shoves the bottle in my face.

“Drink up,” he rasps, “or you’ll get dehydrated.”

Eagerly, I slurp at the bottle, wet dribbles running down my chin and chest as he pounds into me from behind. The bottle clunks to the floor and he yanks a handful of hair, pulling insistently until my neck is cranked back at an awkward angle.

I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the window and I can’t tear my eyes away from how obscene we look, him bending me nearly in half as he rams into my ass hard enough to make me see stars.

“You little fuckin’ slut.”

I’m so out of it my eyes can barely stay open. He pulls out and flips me over, snapping the condom off and flinging it aside. I know I’m going to be fucking sore tomorrow, but for now, I collapse back into the covers with a huge smile on my face.

He’s all sweaty, face flushed red, grinning like a lunatic.

I wonder if he’s still pissed about the drugs, but I don’t fucking care. What’s he gonna do?

I know what he wants.

I arch my back and close my eyes, and he pushes my thighs apart, not even close to being done, I can tell. I don’t care. I’m blissed out, riding the waves of ecstasy. I can feel myself shutting down, and I want to sleep or doze or whatever. I don’t care what he does, don’t care if I’m awake for it.

But he cares, apparently.

“Wake up, baby whore.” My eyelids flicker open at his ominous command, and I try to focus on him before I get sucked into the darkness again. “You wanna play with drugs, then we’ll play.”

He forces my hand between us so I can feel how hard he is, still.

“You don’t go to sleep until this does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the very small handful of readers who, based on their recent comments, have trouble differentiating between fiction and reality: I feel obligated to inform you that, unlike Rey, you are not invincible nor are you impervious to the effects of drugs. Mixing cocaine and molly is a bad, bad idea, and I highly don’t recommend. Also, popping a Cialis for some extra long boner time isn’t great and the side effects probably aren’t worth it. 100% don’t recommend acting like the fictional characters in this story.
> 
> For the rest of you who aren't dipshits, I hope you enjoyed...we are slipping down the slope into darkness and the next couple of chapters (I think I said this last update) are going to be very exciting, I hope.


	18. fall

# fall

He slips past the maid polishing the glass balustrade on the stairs, ignoring her. But he can no longer ignore his phone or messages, and although he’s managed to keep the staff out of his hair for the past two days, everyone has omnisciently and discreetly returned to work more from necessity than anything.

Probably Mitaka’s doing.

A brief glance tells him someone already took care of the table he swiped over in a fit of rage when Rey quite mistakenly tried to tell him he didn’t own her. And her dress has been picked up as well, most likely sent to have the zipper professionally re-stitched and to be cleaned and pressed in case she wants to wear it again.

On a whim, he informs another maid to have Miss Johnson’s things moved into his room but not to disturb her.

“Yes, Mister Solo.”

Not that Rey will notice anything less than a bomb going off right about now. Poor, sweet baby girl had a very busy couple of days, and rightly so.

Confident his orders will be followed to the letter, he pops into the kitchen and orders something to eat and coffee to be brought to him before withdrawing to his study to review Rey’s and his increasingly critical calls.

Before he’s hardly settled in, someone brings him food and coffee, and he evaluates the past days' messages in between bites and sips.

Rey’s first, he decides, and he spends a pleasant minute or two reassuring her friends – via text, of course – she’s fine, she merely overindulged at the party and it made her ill – exhausted, actually – and she’s not returning to work – this part he leaves somewhat vague – and she’ll call soon.

 _Just as soon as you get your voice back_ , he sneers to himself, knowing it’s all his fault she screamed herself hoarse.

Well. Technically it’s her fault for making him do it in the first place.

_That’s what you get when you take candy from strangers, sweetie._

He goes to check his own messages and is amused to see there’s nothing from the police yet, which means Canady must still be in the hospital and unable to file a report.

Though if and when the man wakes, Ben already has a contingency plan in place. He’s not terribly worried about it, either way. The man's days are numbered.

No, Ben’s only really pertinent calls have been from his grandmother in France and a few from his mother.

Holdo most definitely said something since Christmas about Ben’s new love interest – _thank you Holdo, you gossipy cunt_ – because one of his messages informs him his grandmother preemptively sent the Naberrie engagement ring to New York.

It arrived yesterday, and since the delivery agents weren’t able to put the damned thing into Ben’s hands, they took it to Leia, instead.

Fucking perfect. Only three blocks away and Ben has a feeling Leia won’t give up the diamond quite as easily as his grandmother did.

Swallowing his annoyance, he takes one last bite of bagel and calls his mother.

He’d prefer Leia not to be involved at all, not until after the deed is done, but too late.

“She had it couriered over from France?”

“Ben, I don’t know if you’re ready for this.” His mother’s voice sounds hesitant but firm, raking on his nerves. “I haven’t even met this girl. You’re already talking marriage?”

He sighs and keeps his tone cool. “Mother, I appreciate your concern, but it’s really none of your business,” he hedges, avoiding her direct question.

Technically he hasn’t asked Rey, yet, but he has plans and he's sure, under the right circumstances, she’ll agree to anything he asks. He just needs to pave the way with some irresistible bait, and since Rey is far too hard-headed to marry him so quickly without some serious prompting, he's already set things into motion to smooth the path. Animals that feel trapped will chew off a limb to escape. He won't panic Rey by triggering her alarm bells until it’s far, far too late.

“You’ll meet her soon enough, I expect. In the meantime, I’ll be coming to pick up the ring. And the emeralds.”

_Sweet darling girl will look so pretty in them._

“What, you’re coming over _now_? Ben, I’m barely awake and in no condition to talk about it at this hour. I know I promised you could give my emeralds to your fiancée but we don’t know anything about this girl, honey. She could be–”

“Don’t be crass, Mother. Not everything is about money. I love her. We’re getting married. I want to give her grandmother’s ring. And you promised the emeralds to go with it. Besides,” he mutters with reluctance, loath to give up too much information, “Rey has already been thoroughly vetted. By my own people. I’m on my way.”

Even now, he’s headed to the elevator. Leia is sputtering and clearly has qualms, but too fucking bad. He wants that diamond and he wants it on Rey’s finger sooner rather than later. And Mother’s emeralds will make a lovely accompaniment.

_I’ll give you the whole world on a solid gold platter, baby. Anything you want._

“Ben. Just because your grandmother sent the ring to New York doesn’t mean I’m handing it over without any explanation. You’re being rash, and I don’t like it.”

He grinds his teeth together and takes a deep breath, forcing his temper into line with a massive effort of will.

“Nona sent the ring for me, and you know goddamned well the only reason they delivered it to you instead is because I was…unavailable.” Because he was teaching Rey a few things. For the past thirty hours or so. But the threat in his voice is unmistakable when he utters, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And I’ll be leaving with that diamond one way or the other.”

He catches sight of his reflection in the shiny metal door of the elevator and dons his usual mask of impassive boredom as he disconnects the call.

Seething all the way down to the lobby, he decides a bit of metaphorical arm-twisting is in order.

As he strides to his car, he briefs Mitaka on his destination, uncaring if the man wonders why all the hassle to travel three whole blocks. Ben prefers not to wander around New York with a ring and emeralds worth millions of dollars.

Once in the car, Ben scrolls through his phone to find his grandmother’s number. It will be early afternoon in France.

_“Benji?”_

Adding a fair bit of warmth to his voice, he replies, “Nona. How are you?”

Politeness and good manners work miracles and he spends a minute or two getting the preliminaries out of the way before blurting out, “I found someone and I’m marrying her, Nona.”

“I heard a rumor, and I had a feeling you’d be wanting my ring…I would have brought it myself, I just didn’t feel up to flying back to New York again so quickly after Christmas.”

“It’s all right, Nona. We’ll come to you, then I’m taking her to Molsheim.”

“ _Oooh_ , buying a car, Ben?”

She sounds excited and many years younger than her age. A smirk breaks over his face and he gently replies, “Yes, Nona. Only the best for my girl. I want to give her the world and I don’t want to wait and let her slip away.”

And, as he knew she would, Nona sighs wistfully. “Ah, but of course I remember being young and in love. I forget how urgent everything is at your age…of course, I had the diamond sent over just for you! I’ll call Leia right now and explain. And you will bring your lovely girl to meet me, _oui_?”

“ _Oui_ , Nona, just as soon as I can. You’ll adore her, I promise.”

This time he waits for his grandmother to end the call and is once again reminded of the many pieces that needed to align just to arrive at this moment, with him perched on the brink of getting everything he’s ever wanted.

On a whim, he sends a brief text to Fett, telling him to watch for further instructions on Bazine.

Ben is confident Fett will do as told and happily continue to cash his checks with absolute discretion.

Money makes people loyal, and a steady stream of it tends to make them dependent. And dependent people tend to stay devoted, so long as the money keeps flowing.

_And if money doesn’t work, there are always other, less elegant ways to control people._

His mind turns to Unkar Plutt. After learning last week – right before Rey called, actually – that Plutt has been monitoring her activities at the behest of an unknown employer, Ben is still deliberating on what to do about him. Plutt’s actions, combined with the knowledge someone has been trailing Rey from work to her apartment and all over the city, nearly makes his anger boil over.

Ben is now almost positive whoever was watching Rey is one of Snoke’s agents, but like Ben’s employees, Snoke’s are very good and this will be difficult to confirm.

And if Snoke catches even a breath of suspicion Rey was there that night all those years ago, a witness to a brutal double-homicide, Ben knows without a doubt he’ll try to have her killed.

_Not to mention if your true identity ever comes out…oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what a bag of rats that will set loose._

Which is why he needs to marry her as soon as he can.

But, he is sure, with the right incentive, she’ll agree to it. She’s been so very…compliant, after all.

_God, you let me do the filthiest things to you, baby._

The corner of his mouth turns up and he exits the car.

Entering Skywalker Tower, he mentally prepares for battle with his mother. Even though residual fatigue simmers in every muscle, he won't let it show. He’s thoroughly exhausted, but he can muster enough energy to at least fetch Rey’s jewelry personally before crawling back into bed with Rey for a bit of sleep.

And his poor baby isn’t going anywhere, he’s certain. Not only will she need to sleep off the remnants of her stupid little drug trip, but he’s positive the aftereffects of having the living shit fucked out of her for the past day and a half will be enough to keep her flat on her back for a day or two.

A wicked grin slides over his face as he thinks again about who else isn’t going to be moving much for the next couple of days.

Moden Canady’s ass is still in the hospital and he’s goddamned lucky it’s not in a coffin, instead.

Luring him to the men’s room at the New Year's party was a cinch after sending a text from “Rey” with a picture of her underwear and begging for more _candy_.

Canady, that disgusting old pervert, took the bait and, God, the look on the man’s face was fucking priceless when, instead of finding a coked-out girl on her knees ready to suck him off, he found a very pissed off Ben Solo instead.

_“Rey Johnson no longer works for you.”_

After cold-cocking the fucker, Ben rifled through his pockets, found a whole stash of party drugs, including a Cialis or two, which he was more than happy to help himself to, seeing as Canady wasn’t going to be needing them in the ICU, and took his wallet and phone for good measure.

Unfortunately, Poe Dameron came in just as Ben was finishing up, so Ben blindsided him by ripping the towel dispenser from the wall and smashing him over the head before Dameron could see for sure who attacked him.

If necessary, Ben can conjure at least five witnesses to prove he was anywhere but in that hotel men’s room and Mitaka has already ensured all hotel security footage from the night is gone.

Ben wonders if there’s a way to send a message to that big blonde Phasma bitch, too, but he’ll have to worry about her later.

For now, he focuses on the problem at hand with a single-mindedness that has always served him well and braces himself for a bit of a shoving match. His mother is too goddamned obstinate, but Ben is persistent and has never failed to wear her down.

Despite the indecent hour, he knows damned well Mother is already awake. Like Ben, she’s always been an early riser, and he can’t remember the last time he saw her when she didn’t look immaculately put together and wasn't prepared for battle.

As expected, when he arrives at her penthouse Leia greets him with a haughty sniff and purse of the lips and leads him to the tastefully done living room. He follows and spies a familiar leather jewel box sitting on the coffee table.

_Mother’s emeralds._

Grinning, even though he knows the presence of the box doesn’t necessarily mean the fight is won, he stoops and presses a perfunctory kiss to Leia Organa-Solo’s turned-up cheek, not underestimating her one ounce.

“Benny, won’t you sit?”

He plows right in, knowing his lack of manners will rankle her. “I’m not here for a visit, Mother. Where’s the ring?” 

The only sign she’s annoyed is the slightest flare of nostrils, but it’s enough.

He seats himself in the chair opposite her favorite spot on the sofa and goads, “I already know Nona called.”

Leia’s lips press into a thin line and Ben holds in a chuckle.

His eyes meet his mother’s and he waits, holding her stare. Padmé Naberrie Amidala is still very much the matriarch of the family and since she controls her children’s purse strings, and to a lesser extent, Ben’s, her word is law.

Pursing her lips again and scowling, Leia leaves the room, presumably to fetch the diamond.

_Nice try, Mother, thinking to ease the sting of withholding the ring by offering the emeralds instead._

Leaning forward, Ben opens the latch and examines the contents of the jeweler’s box. He hasn’t laid eyes on the jewels for a very long time, but they sparkle back at him as vividly as he remembers.

The necklace is gorgeous, a diamond-encrusted choker set in platinum that already shows a lovely patina on the metal. Ben knows the setting is probably more valuable than the stones, but these, too, are quite lovely to look upon. Set in an art-deco style with cascades of dripping cubes from the collar, the emeralds are rich and lustrous in color and worth a small fortune. The stones’ cut matches the emerald-cut diamonds on Rey’s new bracelet, so the pieces will go well together.

And Ben has already put Signore Antonio to work on several gowns with these specific jewels in mind, now that he has Rey’s measurements.

Returning to the room, Leia resumes her seat. He cannot restrain a ripple of greed when he notices the ring box she carries.

If the diamond bracelet he gave Rey is a metaphorical handcuff, then this ring is tantamount to an unbreakable cage.

“Ben, what about the press? They’re going to have a field day with her. We won’t be able to keep this under wraps, you know.”

“Mother, I was hoping for your approval, if not support. But it’s happening whether you want it to or not.”

“Ben, she could take you for everything. You need to be smart about this. How do you know she’s not going to ruin you or embarrass the family? You hardly know her!”

“We’re getting married. End of discussion.”

“What about a prenup? The family’s lawyers haven’t mentioned a thing.”

_We don’t need one. Because the only way out is if one of us is dead._

“Can I see it?” he asks instead. At this Leia balks, and he adds a touch of menace to his voice. “Mother, _please_.”

There is no plea in his words, however, only command. 

His mother hands over the ring with obvious reluctance and he stretches to reach for it across the table, snapping the box open and, after assuring himself it’s the actual ring and not a copy, quickly tucks it into his pocket.

Leia's frown deepens, but they both know she really has no choice, not after Ben spoke with his grandmother and they called his mother’s bluff.

He leans in again and closes the lid to the emerald case, too, keeping the box in hand as he rises, ready to leave now that he has what he came for.

His mother tries for one last sally, but he’s already halfway out of the room.

“Well, are you at least going to let me help plan the wedding?” Boundless annoyance sizzles out of her.

“We’re keeping the wedding _very_ small. Very discreet. To avoid the paparazzi. As you said, the press can be a bit of a nightmare.”

Refusing to rise to his baiting, she digs in. “A reception then?”

Actually, a reception would be excellent, especially if it’s a semi-public endorsement of the marriage. And Rey’s gowns will be ready. It will smooth Mother’s ruffled feathers and besides, if the marriage is a done deal by then, he’ll already have Rey firmly in hand.

And once they’re legally bound to each other, it will almost certainly thwart whatever Snoke might be planning, if for no other reason than by the mere expedient that Rey isn’t leaving his sight for the foreseeable future and Ben can more easily keep her identity under wraps.

Leia follows him to the exit and he throws her a bone, knowing he’s already won and the rest of her resistance is just fussy decoration to cover her pride.

“A reception would be lovely, Mother. Thank you. Oh, and I need you to pull some strings at the State Department and get her passport expedited.”

“What, she doesn’t even have a _passport_? Ben!” This fresh problem _would_ be a worry to someone like Leia Organa, who has never spent a day in her life without the world at her feet, able to travel on a whim. But Rey has never needed such a thing until now, and Ben will rectify the matter anyhow.

“I can always call Uncle Luke if you don’t want to do it.” He watches his mother’s internal battle against giving up this small crumb of involvement in his life in lieu of standing her rapidly eroding ground.

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll have her paperwork sent over this afternoon.”

_I’ll have to wake up baby girl and have her sign some forms and get her passport photo done, too._

He adds this to his mental checklist. He’s sure he can hire someone to do her makeup and cover the bruises ringing her pretty neck.

He’ll probably need to ease up on the rough sex for a while. There’s no getting around the in-person requirement for a marriage license application and eyebrows will surely raise if Rey looks all beat up, even if she loved every minute of what they did.

Nevertheless, applying for a marriage license means she’ll have to appear in person as soon as she can walk again. Which might be a day or two.

“Why isn’t she here, too?” Leia finally asks cannily, glancing at the jeweler’s case under his arm.

“She’s been ill. It’s why I was indisposed for the past few days. Something she ate at New Year’s, I think.”

“Humph.” Leia doesn’t seem to fully buy it, but Ben doesn’t give a shit.

He gestures to the case for the emerald necklace. "Thanks for this. She'll love it." 

“The provenance for it is in the safe deposit box. I’ll have it sent to the insurance adjusters.”

“Thank you, Mother.” The elevator door slides open and he steps inside.

Leia sighs and shakes her head. “You remind me so much of your father. Stubborn as a rock. And impulsive.”

“Not at all. I’m really quite a planner.” Ben smiles, covering his severe irritation at the comparison. “Where is Dad, by the way?”

“In his study watching the races, I imagine. You should go and say hello. Tell him the news.”

Inwardly, Ben sighs, even as he makes a show of checking his watch. “You tell him for me. I need to get back to Rey if we’re going to get her passport documents in order.”

“You’re moving way too fast.”

“Mother, you should know by now. Fast is the only speed I have.”

The doors slide closed on Leia’s grimace and he flashes a flippant grin even as he adds _ensure decoy is effectively placed into position_ to his mental checklist.

Bazine. Such a perfect tool to meet his needs.

_I think I’ll move forward with eliminating Plutt._

And Canady.

And then Dameron if he gives him any trouble.

Ben winks at the bellhop in the lobby and strides out of the building with significantly less annoyance than he was feeling when he entered it thirty minutes ago.

Doors open as he approaches, and his staff greet him with respectful nods and _good mornings_. He notices his security detail keeping an eye on him and his car. Their service is a well-oiled machine, made to cater to his every whim.

He settles back into the car to ride the three blocks back to his building.

He could have walked and made things interesting for his bodyguards.

But he’s tired. Worn out after a very enjoyable couple of days.

The world exists for his pleasure, after all. And everyone in it will either dance to his tune or quickly learn how to fucking dance.

… _gonna fuck you bowlegged so everyone can see what a nasty little cum-soaked slut you are._

My eyes flutter, trying to open.

The room is dark. Not because it’s nighttime, although why I’m so disoriented, I have no idea.

No, the blinds have been drawn against the gray morning light outside.

_You’re still fighting it. That’s okay. We’ll make sure you don’t have any questions by the time I’m finished with you._

I can hardly sit up and I need to perch on the edge of the bed for five entire minutes, head swimming before I go to the bathroom. I don’t know what day it is.

But.

There’s no way I can make it to work in this condition. I can barely make it across the room.

And once I get a good look in the mirror, I blanch. No fucking way anyone can see me like this.

Finn and Poe would be driven to murder, and Rose would be volunteering to help bury the body, for sure.

But I’m…not alarmed. I’m not even angry.

Fascinated, I evaluate my reflection.

It’s weirdly beautiful, what he did.

Every mark is a reminder of ownership, yes. But…it’s also an undeniable symbol of belonging that has never been so clear nor so literally stamped into my skin.

_Who fucking owns you, whore?_

Purple bruises circle my arms and my neck is black and blue. Trace memories of his unforgiving grip make me ache, reminding me of his merciless lesson.

And I have no doubts whatsoever.

I’m his.

Or I was. For a few wild hours. 

Even if now I'm not sure what I am.

_Harder, Daddy._

_You like it hard, you little slut? All right._

To be the focus of that kind of ruthless attention is unbelievably addictive.

I turn and look at my backside, mostly procrastinating against the inevitable because I know the first few times I use the toilet are going to hurt like a motherfucker. Although he did leave a tube of pain-numbing cream on the vanity, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it’s for.

I open the tube and dab some over a few tender spots, hissing through my teeth at the sting. The backs of my thighs are chafed red and handprint-shaped bruises mottle my hips and ass.

I look like I was in a car wreck or something. My makeup is streaked down my face in dirty rivulets and my hair is snarled into a fright.

But I’m calm. Quiet in a way I’ve never been, ever.

I wish he was here, though. I want him to see what he did so I can watch his dark eyes gleam with the satisfaction of knowing he didn’t scare me away. So I can prove without words I’d let him do it again, without hesitation.

But it’s good to be alone, too. To have some privacy while I clean myself up before I run out of steam. He won’t leave me alone for too long, I think, so I dig through the medicine cabinet and try to figure out what to do.

All my stuff, my makeup and toothbrush and stuff from the guest bathroom are here, and I am so glad I don’t have to go far to get what I need, I don’t even question how it got here or who decided to move it in here.

_You don't need to speak._

It doesn’t matter.

_You don't need to fucking think._

This really is like living in a fairy castle with magical, invisible servants to take care of everything.

_You're my braindead little fucktoy. That's it. Now show me your pussy._

I’m still wearing the diamond bracelet, and I know it’s valuable, but I don’t want to take it off, not even to bathe.

Halfway through a long, hot shower, I realize winter term is starting at Jakku Community College. I think about it, think about what it means that I’ve so easily let my life be overrun by him, Ben, but since there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment, I let it go.

_Good whore. So fucking hot. Fuck._

Besides, I don’t even know where my phone is or anything.

I don’t know if Kylo tried to get to me again, and I hurry through the rest of my shower. I need to call Rose and Finn and let them know why I left the party so abruptly.

I’m not even sure if Finn and Poe popped by as they were planning. Finn mentioned they would drop in on their way to another party and congratulate Rose on her good news, and I know Poe was hinting it would be a good excuse for me to give him an introduction to Ben, too.

Poe’s work for a major design firm includes relentless networking, and I feel a little smug that he sees me as a resource, now. His family might be well-off, but they don’t even swim in the same pool as the ultra-wealthy Solos. Landing a client like Ben, or even moving in his circle of associates would definitely be a boon to his career.

And Finn will benefit. I know he’s planning on taking time off from business school so he can stay at home with the baby, but after this, he’s going to apply to grad school and get his MBA. Finance in New York is cutthroat, but with the right connections and a good education, Finn could be set for life.

I give up trying to comb my hair halfway through. I’m getting tired from thinking, and I’m starting to miss Ben already, which feels pathetic because I want to cry and I can’t explain why.

I snag his bathrobe off the hook and limp back into the bedroom. I notice the sheets have been changed and the blinds are open to let in the morning light and a surge of disappointment hits me, hard. Ben isn’t here and I’m suddenly overwhelmed.

I don’t know if it’s insecurity or loneliness or what, but I _want_ him.

There’s a glass of water by the bed with a small glass of fresh orange juice and two aspirin. I swallow the aspirin and a few sips of water. My stomach rumbles, but I feel as if eating anything is only going to cause extreme discomfort later.

Just then, the door cracks open, and utter relief spills through me when Ben steps inside. He’s dressed in a dark sweater and slacks and I wonder if he’s been out.

“You’re awake.” He shoots me a crooked smile and I notice he’s carrying a tray. “Damn I was sort of hoping you’d still be asleep.”

“You were?” I croak, unreasonably hurt and worried and feeling a whole mix of emotions. Maybe he really just thinks of me as a toy. Breakable. Replaceable. Tears sting my eyes and he sees.

He sees everything, every tiny flicker of my confused thoughts and he reads them better than I can.

“Back in bed.”

I obey him instantly, though I keep his robe on. He doesn’t seem to mind I’m wearing it and I scramble under the covers, sure I belong here, if nowhere else. But the movement makes me groan.

_Dirty little drugged out whores don't get to come._

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Sore?”

“Yeah.” My voice sounds like someone hacked at my vocal cords with a rusty knife. Probably a combination of screaming his name and begging to come mixed with spending a good part of the past day or two with the head of his dick slamming against the back of my throat.

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

 _Damn_.

“I’m late for work.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t work there anymore.”

“Wha-why?”

He hums and sets the tray on the nightstand by the bed. “At the party on Saturday. You, uh, did some coke and ecstasy. Mixed with alcohol? Got pretty fucked up and made a scene. Don’t you remember?”

I sort of remember… _some_ stuff. It’s been coming back to me in pieces.

“Whose blood was on your shirt?”

“What blood?”

“There was blood. On your shirt. I saw it when we came back. When we–”

_You have bigger things to worry about right now, sweetie._

Something itches at the back of my skull. An alert. A warning.

“You must have been more fucked up than I realized, baby, if you were imagining things like that.”

I know I was drugged out, but I’m pretty sure there was blood spattered all over his tuxedo shirt after the party, right before he–

I glance around the room, but it’s immaculately clean and there’s no sign of his bloody clothes, or anything else, for that matter. Even my shredded lingerie has disappeared, I realize. Apparently, someone came in and straightened up and it takes a second for me to connect the aspirin and clean sheets and stuff in the medicine cabinet. His clothes are long gone.

_Fuck. What the fuck did I do?_

I’m confused and it hurts to talk. But I insist, “There was blood all over your shirt. Last night. No, wait. Two nights ago.” 

He shakes his head _no_ , and it’s very convincing. Almost believable. For a second I doubt myself.

His eyes glitter flat and black, and I bite the inside of my cheek, unwilling to push him for more.

I know it’s not my imagination, though. The blood on his clothes was real, as real as the indefinable threat currently emanating from him.

_He’s dangerous, Rey, and not in a way you can handle right now._

As always, he moves with the grace of a caged tiger, stepping close and sweeping a lock of hair from my forehead. I give him a shaky smile and mutter a placating, “I must have been really fucked up, then. Like you said.”

He settles next to me on the bed.

I’m feeling tired and fuzzily bewildered. And still, despite everything, or perhaps because of it, I want him, want him close, even though he’s fully clothed and I’m only wearing bruises and his bathrobe.

I squeak as he shifts me a bit, skootching closer and crooning, “Poor, precious baby princess.”

He tucks an arm around me and his touch is like a drug, sedating and euphoric.

“What happened when you left me in the car? When you went back inside?”

“I went to give our excuses to Hux. We left rather abruptly, and I didn’t want Rose to worry.”

His reply is cool, plausible. But I feel like he’s hiding something.

He reaches to the side and takes a cup of tea from the tray, urging me to sit up a little so I can sip it.

“You don’t have a passport?” he asks.

“No.”

My throat hurts from talking, and I take another sip of the warm tea he brought. It's good. Earl Grey, my favorite.

I feel like I’m an instrument that’s never been played before and he’s tuned me to only respond to his touch and ruined me for anyone else. I don’t think I can go back now that he’s keyed me to answer only to him. I think he might feel the same way. Still, I seek reassurance. I try to hand the teacup back so I can cuddle against him again.

“Finish your tea.”

I take another shaky sip or two under his observation, then he takes the near-empty cup and sets it aside before he carefully pulls the robe from my shoulders.

“Lie back.”

Without argument, I lean back into the pillows and he pulls the sheet away, tugging his robe from under me and scanning me head to toe with an almost clinical perusal.

Every muscle in my body is screaming and he gently shushes me as I try to relax under his gaze. Almost abstractedly, he draws a long finger over the marks on my arms and neck.

“We’ll need to get your passport photo taken.”

“Why do I need a passport?” I rasp, fascinated by the cool calculation in his inspection. He’s not even bothering to hide it now, the proprietary way he looks at me.

“So we can go get your new car. In France.”

Oh, right.

He prods my legs apart and stares until my cheeks heat. But he doesn’t do anything more than flip the sheet back over me and clamber onto the bed, reaching again for something on the tray. It’s an ice pack which he rests on my neck with a gentle hum.

“We’ll switch sides in a few minutes,” he murmurs.

I smile. I almost forgot he promised to buy me a thirty million dollar car. My bracelet sparkles in the morning sunlight and I finally snuggle into him.

_All. Mine._

I watch him peel the wrapper off of a popsicle and wonder how he guessed my favorite.

He holds it for me and I dutifully lick it a few times before biting off a tiny piece. The cold sugar feels good on my throat.

"You’re not gonna be stupid and do drugs again are you, sweetheart?”

“No.” I take the popsicle stick and suck on it with a bit more enthusiasm since he's watching so avidly. The perv.

“Good baby. Look, I got you a present.”

He sets a palm-sized box with a pink bow on his chest, and his amber eyes are twinkling with mischief as he takes my popsicle so I can open the box.

“What? A present?” I perk up. Until very recently, presents have been few and far between. I pull at the bow on the box and he helps, a soft smile playing at his pretty mouth. When I lift the lid I see a shiny new phone inside.

Sitting on top of it is a long, sparkly gold and diamond chain, interspersed with blood-red gemstones. It’s a necklace, and although I can’t wear it right now, I beam at him.

“It’s really beautiful,” I whisper.

“Red for your new Bugatti?”

I would grin wider but my face kind of hurts, although the aspirin is kicking in, I think.

I give the phone a perfunctory nod. It looks like the latest and greatest I’ve seen advertised all over the city.

Ben is watching me with the intensity of a laser beam and I think again about the black malice flashing in his eyes last night when he proceeded to demonstrate just how far he was willing to go to make his point.

_You’re mine. Aren’t you?_

A wave of indescribable foreboding washes over me and I’m once again reminded of how dangerous he is, how monstrous he can be, even if it’s just playing.

Kylo can’t touch me now. But maybe Kylo isn’t the one I need to be so worried about.

Ben Solo is infinitely more powerful and has more resources than I can even begin to imagine. So much more than Kylo, I realize too late.

He’ll never let me go. Never.

“You’re still a tired girl. Go to sleep, princess.”

His warm breath on my hair and the soft rise and fall of his chest lulls me. All of sudden I’m too worn out to look at my new phone or try to figure out what happened to my other one or worry if Kylo is still out there, waiting in the dark to come for me.

My eyelids feel heavy again and I let them fall closed.

I can only worry about one monster at a time. And this one is much nicer to cuddle up to than Kylo ever was.


	19. deceive

# deceive

She took sip after sip, so trusting and obedient it made his lips twist into a hastily turned smile to cover the hungry snarl that was his initial, irrepressible reaction.

Thankfully, she didn’t notice.

_Good girl. Drink your night-night juice so Daddy can have some “me” time with his favorite, prettiest toy._

Some hint of triumph must have slipped past his avaricious gaze, though, and the tiniest frown puckered her brow right before she fell asleep.

But she’s definitely out.

Her pretty eyelashes flutter closed and her head falls limply into the crook of his arm and he lays there, a bit awkwardly, balancing her phone and garnet necklace and popsicle as the effects of the tea make her go boneless.

After a minute or two, he sets her things aside and shifts her, moving the ice pack to the other side of her neck as promised and watching her sleep for a while.

_Pretty girl looks so happy._

He strokes a crooked finger over the velvet skin of her cheek and hovers, wondering if they will always be this peaceful together. Somehow, he doubts it.

He doesn’t mind. He likes her spirit.

_No one will ever love you the way I do._

Which is why he had to punish her so harshly after her little stunt on New Year’s Eve.

Obviously, she can’t be taking drugs on her own if he’s feeding them to her, too.

The last thing he wants is to have her accidentally overdose.

She’s strong-willed, his girl, and it took the better part of a day to break her down, truly break her down into a submissive state, but he did it and burned her indomitable will into a pile of ashes he could scoop up with both hands and revel in while they were still warm.

And then, when she’d finally, finally surrendered everything she had, driven to the brink of madness from his relentless edging, he’d shoved her over the verge and jumped in after, and there they’d swum in the pitch-black waters of unchecked lust until there was nothing left to do but float back to shore, together.

He doesn’t want her to get cold, but he misses her already, the light in her eyes, so he shifts on the bed and undoes his pants and slips under the sheet, curving around her and rubbing his semi-hard erection against the smooth, supple flesh of her backside until he’s hard enough to push between her legs. After the past few days, he’s sure he doesn’t have anything left in him, but he isn’t worried about coming this time.

He only seeks a reminder of how warm and wet and soft she is, a welcome, a homecoming of sorts.

Here he takes what's his because he can. And beyond, where they are connected on a spiritual plane, he finds a different kind of satisfaction as he levers his hips, gently but deliberately, fucking into her sleeping body with an urgent, single-minded determination to remind her he owns her there, too.

Even if she’s out cold, perhaps he can reach her in the realm of her dreams. To remind her she’s not alone.

And she’ll never be again.

After a lengthy nap, I wake up foggy and mildly nauseous.

Two aspirin and a large glass of water sit on the nightstand beside a stunning emerald and diamond choker. It’s obviously a prized antique and just looking at it gives me a chill. Even to my inexpert eye, this one looks far, far more expensive than the other necklace Ben gave me.

I wonder what happened to the gold and red one that came with my phone. I don’t see it anywhere, not even after I shuffle around in the pillows and sheets and dip my hand along the back of the bed, between the mattress and the headboard.

Giving up the search, for now, I swallow down the aspirin without hesitation, along with most of the water. My head is a bit fuzzy, but the water helps.

Ben isn’t in the room, and I have no idea what time of day it is.

But it must be time to get out of bed. A pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and a cotton t-shirt are sitting out, along with a gorgeous soft-gray cardigan. Like his clothes, everything he buys me is in neutral tones and of the highest possible quality.

In a hurry, I dress and head downstairs to seek out Ben.

My legs are still shaky and my throat hurts, but not so much as earlier.

I find him in the living room, reading something. Off to the side is a camera on a tripod and a spry little man wearing all black and an assessing look on his round face.

“Dis ees da girl?”

“ _Oui_. Monsieur Artoo, permit me to introduce Mademoiselle Rey Johnson.” Ben’s answer is quiet but respectful. He’s giving off the same vibe he does with Pryde, his chef, and at 3PO with Signore Antonio. “She needs her passport photo done, today, _s'il vous plaît_.”

Artoo shoots me a friendly smile and a chipper, “ _Enchanté_!”

“Today?” I rasp, eyeing the paperwork Ben is holding, momentarily forgetting all about the necklace as my heart skips a beat. I’m sure I look like I took a trip to the Port Authority terminal and let a few of the buses down there run me over.

But Ben only gives me an enigmatic “ _Mhmm,_ ” before turning his attention back to his papers.

The little box of memorabilia and important documents – the one I use to hold my identification and old photos of me and Finn and Rose – is on the coffee table, delivered here last week from my apartment, along with my other things.

_Kylo can’t get you now._

Ben eyes me up and down as I approach, and I know he’s evaluating the cardigan, constantly gauging me and the way I'm fitting into his world, I think. I stroke the sweater and smile, suddenly feeling shy.

“This is really nice. Thank you.”

I move to sit beside him on the exquisite sofa, a piece of furniture Poe would drool all over, custom-tailored white leather and curved to fit around the artsy-looking coffee table that puts my little crates in Hell’s Kitchen to shame.

A pang of semi-homesickness hits me unexpectedly. I miss Rose. And Finn. I haven’t heard from either of them for days and days, although Ben assures me his security teams are watching them and providing him with regular reports.

“Artoo is still setting up, and then he and his assistant will take your picture for your passport. We can fill these out and have them sent to my mother. She has a connection at the State Department who can expedite it.”

A spate of Russian cursing flies in from the kitchen and I belatedly smell something delicious wafting into the room.

“Pryde’s here?”

“Yeah. Using the kitchen to test a recipe or two.”

Pryde lives in Europe but he spends a lot of time in New York, according to Ben.

My stomach rumbles excitedly, but I know it might be a little while before I get to taste whatever it is Pryde is concocting. I try to be patient. It’ll be well worth the wait.

Instead, I focus on reciting the information Ben needs to fill out my passport application. And once the backdrop is set up with lighting and the camera is adjusted – surely more than is needed for a simple passport photo – I sit still while Mr. Artoo’s assistant dabs makeup all over the sex bruises on my neck and then follow the photographer’s prompts while the odd little man snaps a few pictures.

When we’re finished, Artoo quickly and efficiently packs up his gear, and Mitaka comes in and takes my passport forms from Ben who shoos everyone out until we are once again relatively alone.

“Aren’t I supposed to apply for that passport in person?”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Mitaka will take care of it.”

I hum doubtfully. Rose had to jump through a bajillion hoops to get hers in time for her honeymoon, and it took forever, too.

Ben is watching me again and his eyes heat to honeyed amber when I plop a wet kiss on his cheek.

He drags me into his lap. His face is still smooth from shaving this morning, but I know it will be lightly raspy with stubble by the end of the day and somehow this knowledge thrills me beyond measure.

He’s been a teddy bear since earlier when he gave me the jewelry and the kisses and a new phone, beyond careful of all the bruises he put on me. I don’t mind the marks, although they’ve drawn a few sideways glances from Artoo and his assistant and one of the maids I greeted on the way downstairs.

Nobody said a word, though, and since I am obviously happy to be here and clearly not being held captive, they probably correctly assume everything’s fine.

I kiss him again and he purrs, “What’re all the kisses for?”

“For the necklaces. I just saw the other one on the nightstand.”

“Other one?” he chuckles.

“Oh!” My cheeks flame with embarrassment for assuming. “I thought the green one was for me, too.”

I’m mortified, but Ben frowns. “It _is_ for you. I gave it to you earlier, with your phone. Remember?”

My embarrassment quickly turns to confusion. “But what about the red one? With the yellow gold?”

Ben snorts, “I wouldn’t give you yellow gold. You only get platinum from me, baby,” and pats the top of my head like I'm a child. I am very briefly annoyed.

“It was a yellow gold chain with red stones,” I insist. “You gave it to me with my phone.”

“Does baby want a red one, too?” he croons in a sing-song voice that would scorch my panties off if I was wearing any. “You know I’ll buy you whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“I–” I stop and think, sure he gave me a necklace earlier. Yellow gold with red stones. To match my new Bugatti, he said.

Am I losing my goddamn mind?

But why would he give me a necklace and then swap it for another, much more expensive piece?

None of this is making any sense, but Ben is stroking my back and murmuring, “You’re still tired, princess. You should go straight back to bed.”

Maybe I dreamed it. I’ve been kind of fucked up these past days. Ben is watching me with his usual intensity, and I get the same sensation I had when I asked him about the blood on his shirt. Something is off, but it doesn't make any sense.

I snuggle closer and silently vow I’m not going anywhere until I get a taste of whatever Pryde is cooking up. I let the necklace matter drop for now, suddenly not eager at all to look at the emerald one again.

From my place on Ben’s lap, the painting – the Kenobi – draws my eye as it always does. Trying to sound offhand, I mention that Poe said it was “a legend” when I told him about this place at Christmas.

A peculiar, mysterious light glints in Ben’s eyes. For a minute, I wonder if he is angry I talked about him and his house and his painting to Poe. But my curiosity is stronger and propels me into asking, “Why would he call it a legend? Is it famous?”

And Ben licks his lips and explains good-naturedly, “In his lifetime, Obiwan Kenobi made sixty-six paintings. After his death, sixty-five of his works were – and still are – officially accounted for. All of them except for one, which has long been thought to be lost in a tragic accident.” He nods to the art on the wall. “That one.”

I don’t know much about art, but I’ve never heard of Kenobi before. I suppose this isn’t a huge surprise, given my small town, public school education.

“Was he terribly famous?”

“Famous enough. His works have always been kept in a private collection, though. It’s why they are so easy to keep track of. He never had time to become renowned for them when he was alive, despite his genius.”

I glance at the painting again and feel an odd familiarity or, I don’t know, an affinity to it. As if I am looking at life and death occupying the same space.

Ben murmurs, “Kenobi’s erratic behavior was probably more legendary than his art. The man was considered quite a paradox, particularly in how he addresses the application of light and dark, juxtaposed. I’m sure your friend Poe, if he went to design school or has a passing knowledge of modern art, would know of Kenobi and the paintings and who owns them.”

“Who owns the others?”

“My grandmother, actually. Padmé Naberrie Amidala. Anakin Skywalker’s widow.”

The name Skywalker sends a thrill through me. Sometimes I forget my boyfriend is basically New York royalty.

Everyone in Manhattan knows about Anakin Skywalker, one of the most famous entrepreneurs of his generation, raised from nothing to become one of the youngest, most prolific, self-made billionaires in the city, which is saying quite a lot.

Skywalker died well before Ben was born, but he built an empire before he did, a colossal heritage for his children, Luke and Leia, to take on. Among other things, he built Skywalker Tower, a legacy I suppose Ben will inherit someday.

Honestly, I cannot fathom one person holding so much wealth or power.

Something niggles the back of my mind. “Wouldn’t Poe just assume your grandmother would have given you one of hers? Why would he use the word _legend_?”

Ben chuckles and a frisson runs through me. “Anyone who knows my family history knows she’ll die before she lets one of her precious Kenobis go, even to me. And even then, I think she’ll find a way to take them with her.”

A million new questions spring forth, and I take a few seconds to digest Ben’s casual statement. Before I can ask why his grandmother hasn’t somehow got hold of this particular one, he goes on. “In some circles, her obsession is a subject of much gossip and speculation. Any change in ownership would almost certainly be noted. Your friend is a Dameron? East Hamptons?”

I nod again, reminded of how different Ben’s world is, centered around the knowing of people instead of things, of how an encyclopedic knowledge of names and family connections is as important to him in navigating his realm as memorizing the subway schedule is for someone like me.

Rose explained this to me when she met Hux, too. Everyone with money knows each other if not _of_ each other. It’s bizarre how Ben keeps track of all of it, but he does.

I shake my head. Rich people skills.

“Hmmm. Yes. I know of his family. He’s probably heard of at least some of my family’s dirty laundry.”

“When I was telling Poe about this place, he said it has eight bedrooms,” I remark.

Ben doesn’t seem surprised by this revelation. “It used to. I made some renovations when I bought it. Had the contractors sign some NDAs when they converted the bottom rooms into a library. Eight bedrooms is a bit much, don’t you think?” He grins mischievously and my tummy does a somersault. “Although now that word is out, I suppose we should invite him and your friend Finn for dinner so he can get a tour. Poe. He's a designer, right?”

My heart leaps in my chest. Poe would kill for something like that…only I haven’t heard from him or Finn since before New Year’s Eve.

The Kenobi catches my eye again.

“How did Kenobi die?” I wonder, moving the subject away from my friends.

Darkness shadows Ben’s face and he stares at the painting for a long time, so long I think he’s not going to answer.

“He challenged my grandfather to a duel.”

“Oh!” I breathe, tantalized and intrigued beyond measure, despite Ben’s curt tones.

“He lost.”

“…oh.”

I want to know everything, why they dueled and did they use guns or swords or just their fists and mostly I want to know why Ben would want to keep a painting done by the man his grandfather killed, a painting his grandmother must surely want as part of her collection.

Or. If she doesn’t want it, then why not?

Why collect all that art of the man who dueled with her husband and lost?

I’m dying of curiosity, but Ben is pulling me close to kiss my cheek, and suddenly, I’m rather distracted.

I manage to keep my questions to myself for a whole week, but I finally determine to get the full story from Ben when I find him in his study. He's wearing reading glasses and poring over papers from behind his enormous mahogany desk.

“Hey,” I murmur, moving to him like iron to a magnet and settling in his lap, taking his glasses from his nose because I think he sort of expects me to be a bit precocious at all times. I think he likes it. I spent the morning in the jacuzzi, drinking a smoothie and reading the rest of my murder mystery novel.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he growls, but gently, taking his glasses and setting them on the desk.

It’s been like this ever since I woke last Monday after sleeping off my ill-advised drug trip and subsequent New Year’s Day sex marathon. I’m still not entirely convinced I remember him giving me an emerald choker instead of the necklace with red stones, but I haven’t had any other weird anomalies since then, and honestly, I can admit I was probably more fucked up than I realized.

We’ve holed up here at the penthouse until my bruises fade to a less scandalous shade of purple and I can appear in public without terrifying small children. I’ve never slept so much in my life and Ben doesn’t own a television, and since I didn’t have one before, my entertainment is mostly limited to books and magazines and hanging out in the jacuzzi.

And being with Ben.

I still haven’t heard from Finn or Rose, despite my half-hearted attempts to reach out to them. It’s not terribly surprising I haven’t heard back. I know Rose is still entertaining family and probably furious with me for leaving Hux in the lurch after making a scene at the New Year’s Eve party.

Guilt swarms me, and I know I’ve ignored Finn, too, all the week before the party and even before that, although I had my own problems. Still, if I don’t hear from them soon, I’m going to venture out and show up and demand answers. I can’t apologize for being an ass if they aren’t willing to give me a chance to say I'm sorry.

Like clockwork, Pryde comes in and sets a dish on Ben’s papers and grunts, “Something for Miss Rey. My take on Italian.” This is followed by a curt nod and something sounding like the Russian version of _bon appetit_.

It’s hard to tell. His accent is thicker when he’s preoccupied, one of the only things I’ve managed to learn about the man since he resumed control of the penthouse’s kitchen the day after New Year’s.

“Your passport is here,” Ben informs me, reaching around to pull open a drawer and show me the little book, stiff with newness. I open it to peek inside, dutifully examining the blank pages and wondering what kinds of hoops people had to jump through to get it here so fast.

A shiver of nervousness runs through me. I’ve never really traveled before, definitely never flown anywhere, let alone left the country.

Ben is kissing my neck and squeezing my shoulder and another frisson rolls down my spine.

“You should eat before that gets cold, princess. We can’t offend Pryde into leaving early.”

I grin and hand my passport back to him, knowing he’ll keep track of it for me, and I take up the bowl and cut a piece of ravioli in half with the edge of my fork, spearing the cut piece until the insides squish out and sopping them back up with the mangled pasta.

I can feel Ben watching me as I eat, one bite after another. A low chuckle rumbles out of him and he mutters, “God, I’ll need to teach you how to eat before my grandmother sees what a little barbarian you are.”

I would argue, but the ravioli is delicious. I’m too busy shoving another forkful into my mouth to be insulted. 

He’s probably right – I should learn how to eat. The way he eats is simply gorgeous, every bite brought to his mouth with a precision and elegance I would try to emulate if I didn’t feel slightly ridiculous. I feed him a bite and he manages to chew and swallow and appear totally fucking sophisticated while he does.

I can’t imagine him slurping noodles from the takeout box or drinking the remainder of milk straight from the cereal bowl. I wonder if he even eats cereal, but his words sink in, eventually.

“Wait. Your _grandmother_?” I thought we were flying to France to get my Bugatti.

Although the more I think about this, too, the more I’m having second thoughts.

Poverty has been too ingrained for me to ever fully enjoy such an extravagant possession.

Not when there are many better things to spend that money on.

Ben hums noncommittally and I sense he wants to say something else, but instead I dive in and change the subject. I rarely have a chance to take the upper hand, conversation-wise.

Ripping off the metaphoric Band-Aid, I blurt, “Maybe that Bugatti is too much.”

“Too much?” he croons, taking my dish of half-demolished ravioli and setting it back on top of his important-looking papers so he can turn me in his lap and look me in the eye.

It’s always unsettling to have his undivided attention like this, but I manage a quiet, semi-scolding, “Thirty million dollars for a car is a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

The corner of his lips turn up and I watch, fascinated, as his gaze drops to my mouth.

“I think you earned it.”

Heat washes over my face. He hasn’t fucked me since New Year’s, and while I know we probably got carried away and I could use the break – my throat still kinda hurts – he’s been nothing but meticulously chivalrous since then.

My lips press between my teeth as I try to think of a way to explain.

A few weeks ago, I was living out of a camping cooler in a one-room apartment in a shady part of town. I had a shit job, a scary-as-fuck stalker, and I pretty much didn’t know where my next meal was coming from.

I was lonely and stressed the fuck out. And bitter. Yeah, I’ll admit it. I was jealous of my friends and pissed at the world.

And now the whole world is practically at my fingertips.

I have two pieces of jewelry that can, if I sell them, support me quite nicely for a year or two if I’m careful. I have no bills and a boyfriend who is richer than God and who will give me anything I want, so long as I let him have whatever _he_ wants.

Which is relatively straightforward: He only wants one thing, and I’m it.

I mean. I _think_ I’m it.

A few weeks ago I was using a pipe wrench to turn the kitchen faucet off all the way and was stuffing steel wool and rags into the rat hole under the cupboard, hoping they wouldn’t come back after Beebee was gone. Now I live in a penthouse along with a priceless work of art, and I eat cuisine prepared by a temperamental, internationally-renowned Russian chef, and I have a small army of servants to literally wait on me hand and foot.

Even if it can’t possibly last, I’m going to fucking enjoy this while I can.

But I can do something for good, too.

“Maybe we can put that money towards a charity for foster kids or something,” I suggest when Ben tilts his head, patiently waiting for me to speak my mind. “I have a friend in finance – it’s Finn, actually – and managing something like that might be a great foot in the door for him?”

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I know it’s the right thing to do. Finn would be awesome at running a charity. He’s got a heart of gold and can’t be corrupted, and he’s smart, smarter than anyone I know. And this might be just the olive branch I need to repair things between us if he’s mad at me for ignoring what he and Poe have been going through.

Ben isn’t saying _no_ , but he’s watching me with his now-familiar scrutiny. I feel like maybe I’ve surprised him and I know for a fact Ben doesn’t like surprises.

He hums again and his eyes warm up a bit when I kiss his luscious lips and murmur a teasing, “Besides, I don’t know even how to drive.”

He smells expensive and tastes like coffee and ravioli and I’m holding my breath. He clucks his tongue. “I don’t think that’s true, princess. You know how to drive me crazy.”

“I do?”

“Isn’t that what you’re trying to do right now?”

“Please?” I exhale, batting my eyelashes with just the right amount of coyness and he smirks.

“Of course. You can have whatever you want, baby. A charity for foster kids would be great for your friend’s resume, although I’ll want my guys to check him out. Make sure he’s got the chops to handle that kind of money. Maybe be available to help him, too?”

“Really?” My heart is pounding. Oh, God, Finn will be over the moon, I just _know_ it.

“Yeah. I’ll have something started up this afternoon. Might take a week or two to sort out the details. But I’m still taking you to France.”

“But I’m scared of flying.”

He grins. “How do you know you’re scared if you’ve never done it before?”

“I just am.”

“Well. We’re going. And I’m taking you to my grandmother’s chateau and you can see the Naboo vineyards for yourself. And then we’ll go to Molsheim so you can look at the Bugattis and at least take one for a test drive. Maybe we’ll find you something more manageable, hmm?”

I swallow my rising nerves and he gently tugs the collar of my shirt down so he can view the bruises on my neck, faded now, but still there. Instead of looking sorry over the fact he put them there, an almost-greedy look enters his eyes, quickly shielded by his ridiculously pretty eyelashes. Nevertheless, the look startles me enough to make me shift anxiously in his lap.

We’ve been sharing a room and a bed for days and he’s been holding off on sex and I’ve been starting to worry he’s losing interest. Especially since I’ve only been growing more and more obsessed with him.

Actually, I’m wondering what sex with him is like when it isn’t tainted by extreme adrenaline or drugs when Pryde comes back in and notices my half-eaten ravioli.

Before anyone can do a thing, I take the fork and cram the rest in my mouth and Pryde’s eyebrows shoot skyward, scandalized.

“Sorry! Got…distracted,” I explain around a mouthful of cheese and pasta and sauce.

Pryde snatches the dish from my hands and exits in a huff and I shout after him, “It was super good! Thank you!”

Ben holds me by the hips and his grip tightens infinitesimally. “You shouldn’t provoke him, sweetheart, or he’ll leave in high dudgeon and not come back.”

I finish chewing and swallow and snort, “Well, isn’t he leaving for a month? And aren’t we going to France, anyway?”

“Sassy brat,” he chides. Sweeping my hair from the back of my neck, he kisses me there and warm tingles spill all the way to my toes. I squirm again, this time deliberately, and Ben’s response is immediate and noticeable. I feel a familiar warmth pressing against me.

His tongue nudges hot and wet against the sensitive spot just behind my ear and I moan, softly.

“You feeling better?” he murmurs against my skin. Every cell in my body rouses to full alert. It’s been days and _days_ and I miss him.

 _I’m addicted_. I can’t imagine getting enough of him, his attention, or his touch, or the way he tastes or smells. It’s as if I’ve been yearning for this very _thing,_ my whole life, the exact way he treats me and uses me and spoils me.

It’s as if I’ve been broken from trauma and hardship and lost too many parts of myself and he holds all of the pieces I need to make me whole again. Especially the dark, secret pieces that nobody else sees or understands.

After a lifetime of being lonely and stoic and misunderstood, he’s giving me everything I never knew I needed. Nothing is off-limits, anything is up for grabs.

I can’t conceive of a possible time where this, right here, isn’t something I will crave.

Boldly, I reach between us, pressing my palm against the soft fabric that covers the hard muscle of his abs. Moving lower, I feel the rigid length of him straining against his pants.

That he’s just as eager for me as I am for him only makes it hotter.

“Go and lock the door,” he breathes, standing me on my feet. I do it, knowing what he wants and also knowing I’m still sore and tender and we probably shouldn’t be doing this or there will be hell to pay later.

But his eyes smolder with the dark promise that whatever we do will be worth the aftermath, and I’ve learned by now he’s going to take what he wants regardless of any protests I have to offer.

I decide I don’t even care.

I skip across the carpet and shut the door all the way, turning the lock with a gentle click before I spin to face him.

Like a predator, he moves with such stealth I don’t realize he’s followed me until he’s inches away.

“Shhhh.”

I can feel him reading how jumpy I am, appraising me like I’m a piece of meat he’s going to tear into soon, but not until he determines the most efficacious plan of attack.

I’m still wearing my diamond bracelet – it hasn’t come off my wrist since Ben put it there – along with a pair of drawstring pants, soft and warm for lounging, and my Nirvana t-shirt and the thirty-five hundred dollar cardigan he bought me. I know it cost thirty-five hundred dollars because I saw one exactly like it in a fashion magazine yesterday.

The blatant luxury is something I’ve accustomed myself to surprisingly quickly. Even my raggedy t-shirt feels different here, softer. They must do something to the fabric, use some magical detergent before they iron it.

All of a sudden, he turns me back and presses my face against the door. My heart is thundering out of control.

His hand slips under the hem of my shirt and creeps up until it cups around my breast, his thumb in constant, teasing motion.

He’s never been this gentle before, almost painfully cautious. I’m practically zinging with anticipation, waiting for him to amp up the energy, wondering when his light caress will turn into a ruthless pinch or bruising grasp.

But he doesn’t do anything harsher than breathe a bit more raggedly as he plays with me against the door, grinding his crotch against my butt until I’m breathing hard like him and clinging to the roaming hand under my shirt.

He’s kissing my neck again, pulling off my sweater with relentless lethargy. It’s driving me wild and I want him to hurry.

“What are you in such a rush for?” he mutters. “We don’t have anywhere to be but right…here.” At this, he rolls my puckered nipple between thumb and forefinger with such devastating gentleness, I cry out, a noise quickly muted halfway out of my mouth, just as soon as I remember his earlier command.

“You want the staff to hear you? To know what we’re doing in here?”

“No…”

His other hand – the one not still playing with my nipple – snakes across my throat and jaw with such insidious intent I seize up, freezing like I do when I’m afraid.

But I’m not afraid.

He hums and kisses me again, scraping his teeth along my upper shoulder until I’m quivering with nervous energy.

I want him. Desperately.

“…please…” I whisper into his hand, arching my neck in hopes of enticing him to move things along.

“Please what? Make you scream? Or cry?”

“-wha-what?”

“Scream or cry?” His touch disappears, but I know better than to move. Behind me, I hear the wicked hiss of his leather belt whipping from the belt loops on his pants. I cannot imagine a more heart-stopping sound and I almost, _almost_ let a trickle of pee roll down my legs.

“You choose, sweetie.”

Something at the back of my mind rears up to red alert and I sense an unseen danger, so _close_ and hovering just at the edge beyond sight. Frantically, I try to discern _why_ , but I’m keeping him waiting, and he doesn’t like–

In a panic, I make a wild decision.

“Scream?”

“Bold choice,” he purrs, sliding his belt down the outside of my arm. “For someone still wearing my bruises. You sure?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I don’t care. I can hear the rabid satisfaction in his voice and hot claws of lust sink into me.

“…so…you _do_ want the staff to hear what a dirty little slut you are?” The slightest rasp in his voice is all I need to hear to know he’s fucking salivating over this.

I swallow. Fuck, this is exhilarating.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Remember you asked for it,” he hisses before he sucks a wet kiss into the side of my neck. “ _Don’t_. _Move_.”

Obediently, I ignore everything but him as I stare at the grain of wood on the door in front of my nose. And I wait for him to do whatever he’s going to do.

I’ve never been so tempted to turn my head. But I know better.

A sharp rap on the other side of the door startles me so badly I yelp.

_“Mr. Solo? You have an urgent phone call, sir. The one you’ve been waiting for from Dubai.”_

“We’ll have to pick up where we left off later, baby,” Ben mutters. Then more loudly he calls out, “Thanks, Mitaka. I’ll take it in here.”

I dare to look back at him and a voracious grin flickers over his face.

“Ben!” I’m annoyed, my nerves frayed from the sexual frustration.

He drops his voice an octave. “I oughtn’t to keep Dubai waiting.”

He’s been waiting for this.

There is no call from Dubai.

Mitaka’s words are code to warn him two of New York’s finest are currently in the elevator, on their way up.

Ben adjusts his belt and, after giving Rey a heated, frustrated kiss, locks himself in his study and logs into his laptop so he can watch the show from his newly installed security cameras in the foyer.

He even has his phone at the ready so he can make the call when needed.

Knowing it will be in horrid taste to contact Hux under the circumstances, he opts instead to call his personal attorney, Dryden Vos, a real piece of bloodsucking scum. Vos’s ability to wriggle out of a tight situation is only matched by his avarice, which Ben has found to be nearly limitless thus far, and therefore quite useful.

He makes a mental note to check on Hux after a day or so, the polite timeframe, Ben guesses, to reach out to a good friend who suddenly finds his newly-recovered partner at law fresh from the hospital and now dead in his office and surrounded by some extremely unflattering _evidence_.

Yes, Hux will be dealing with a media circus for now and out of Ben’s hair for the moment. His real focus is Rey, anyhow, and making sure this plays out the way he planned.

Time to cinch the noose.

She’ll figure out he’s been drugging her, eventually. She’s already building up a bit of resistance to his sleeping medication. But for now, she doesn’t have a clue he’s been helping himself to her favors all week.

She’s clever, though, and he could practically taste her suspicion just minutes ago. He just couldn't help it. He’ll need to wrap things up quickly and get that ring on her finger. And this is best accomplished if she’s on the brink of terror and just unsure enough of her standing with him until the deal is done.

His poor little girl is wearing a hangman’s halter and doesn’t even realize it’s only going to tighten the harder she struggles to get free. And the best part is, she put it around her own neck all by herself.

_If you only knew how much work I’ve done to get us here, baby, what I’m doing to ensure our future. Yours and mine._

Nothing’s better than a plan that comes together without a hitch.

Right on cue, the elevator doors open, indicating the arrival of the police. Mitaka is already waiting to keep the two detectives cooling their heels in the entryway.

“Mr. Solo is on a business call to Dubai at the moment.”

“We’re not here to speak to Mr. Solo,” the first detective says politely, craning her neck up the stairs as Rey approaches with perfect timing. “We’re actually looking for Rey Johnson.”

“I’m Rey Johnson.”

_Good girl. Not even going to put up a fight._

“Miss Johnson? We’d like you to come down to the precinct for questioning.”

Fear enters her eyes. “Um. Can I see your identification?” Rey asks, demonstrating some common sense, not that it’s going to save her from what’s coming next. The thing that will drive her straight into his arms.

Permanently.

She examines each of the detectives’ badges and her little hands are shaking. A thrill of adrenaline shoots through him at the delicious tension of inevitability.

She probably thinks one of her friends is in danger.

_Oh, no, baby, it’s always been you. Just you._

“What's this all about?”

“We have some questions about your connection with Porter Dameron.”

“Poe?” Rey looks confused, and her head moves back and forth. “Is he okay? What happened?”

“He’s been charged with murder.”

“Murder? What? No!” Rey exclaims. “There’s no way! Is he-?” She turns helplessly to Mitaka. “I have to go. I have to…help.” She returns their badges and asks with a tremble in her voice, “Mitaka, can you please get Ben?”

“Yes, miss.” Mitaka’s performance is flawless and he rushes away.

One of the cops asks, “Is Ben your lawyer?” Ben bristles at the man’s tone and decides he’ll have his badge by the end of the week.

“No,” Rey answers, close to tears. “He’s…”

"Yeah, your sugar daddy isn't invited. If we need to talk to him, we will."

_Ah, baby girl. It’s got to hurt, but Daddy will make everything all right, I promise._

Mitaka returns and informs them, “His call should only take an hour or so if you’d like to wait?”

“We don’t have all day,” one of the cops snaps with a pointed glance around the entryway that’s probably bigger than the pig’s entire fucking apartment. “Some of us actually _work_ for a living.”

“…I didn’t do anything wrong!” Rey states more firmly.

But they only watch her with thinly veiled distrust. Ben knows why.

She looks like a wealthy man’s mistress now, not one of them, a member of the working class.

“Are you refusing to come with us?”

“N-no.”

“Good. Then this should be quick. Let’s go, princess,” the second one says so sarcastically, Ben decides he’ll have her badge, too, even though he can't believe Rey is so un-fucking-believably stupid as to go with them.

Not that he isn't totally expecting this.

The cops permit Rey to slip on her cashmere coat, handed to her by an ever-helpful Mitaka.

Even from here, he catches Mitaka muttering a reassurance and a vague, “We’ll get this all sorted out, miss.”

Rey nods, eyes as wide as saucers. She looks terrified and he can see the sparkle of tears on her lashes even through the live camera feed. She disappears into the elevator with the police detectives and Ben queues up Dryden Vos’s number.

Vos is so good, if he’d been present at the Fall of Lucifer he’d have gotten the Devil off with a slap on the wrist and a written apology from God Himself. And he has the Mayor’s number handy, too, if needed. Lando Calrissian owes him a favor, though he doubts he'll need to cash it in.

Assuring himself his inside men at the precinct will keep an eye on Rey until Vos arrives, he whistles and slides open his desk drawer, examining her passport and wondering how he’s going to kill the next few hours until Vos gets her off and she's crying for him to put her back together again.

He slides open another drawer and takes out Nona’s engagement ring, appreciating how the stone gleams in the light.

 _Soon_.

_But not too soon. I think we need you just a little more desperate than you’ve been, lately. And a little less inquisitive, and definitely less sure of yourself...and absolutely questioning every thought you ever had._

He’ll call Vos in an hour.

Rey will have plenty of time to fuck herself over good and hard by then and learn the most important lesson of all.

_You need me. And you need to learn I’m the only one who’s ever going to come for you, sweetheart._


	20. manipulate

# manipulate

The noise hits me first, as soon as I step out of the elevator and into the precinct.

And then, almost immediately after this, the smell.

After only a couple of weeks living at the top, I’ve become accustomed to the well-buffered isolation Ben’s wealth offers from the chaos of the real world.

But this, here and now, I remind myself, _is_ my world. Still turning. Waiting for me, despite my best attempts to ignore it.

The detectives, Wexley and Lintra, escort me to an ominously-lit interrogation room that carries the faint, permeating stench of body odor, stale coffee, and ammonia.

It’s vaguely disgusting, but I guess I’m thankful they aren’t making me wait in the open bullpen with the other officers and criminals and people milling around.

I’m on edge, and it hasn’t escaped me this might be a great opportunity for Kylo to try to get to me, particularly since Ben’s security team can’t be here.

But Poe is in trouble and I need to do whatever I can to help. Reminded of his problems, which far outweigh my own, I focus on my surroundings instead of the fact I’m all alone.

The room is slightly chilly, but I slide off my coat anyhow, mostly because I think if I keep it on, Detective Lintra will keep shooting me dirty looks. The contrast between my appearance and my current surroundings is even more distinct and I can tell she thinks I’m a spoiled rich girl.

I wish I had thought to take off my diamond bracelet.

I cup a hand over my wrist in an unconscious bid to cover it up and Lintra smirks when she catches the movement. I feel a shiver of cold and wish heartily for my beautiful cardigan, probably still on the floor of Ben’s study even now.

He’s most likely still on his important business call and I wonder if he even knows I’m here, yet.

_Mitaka. I hope you come through for me._

Technically, I’m not under arrest, and I remind myself they just have some questions. I know if I cooperate this will go much more smoothly.

But I can’t help but be nervous.

My attention is riveted on the two detectives, currently facing me across a cold metal interrogation table. The table is complete with a metal bar in the middle to which they can attach handcuffs, just like on TV.

Wexley, a stocky man about Ben’s age, exits the room and returns a few minutes later with a file folder and a box, which he drops on the table with a dramatic slap that startles me so badly I flinch.

Because of their detective status, both cops are wearing suits instead of police uniforms, but I can tell their suits are cheap. Compared to the ones Ben owns, theirs are obviously from low-end department stores, not custom made. I can see by the inexpensive sheen of the fabric and the way their jackets bunch and gape that the tailoring is of much lower quality than anything Ben would wear.

Before I met Ben, the detectives' illusion of formality and authority might have intimidated me a bit more. Somehow knowing Ben Solo would eat these two for lunch makes me feel a little better. I stiffen my spine.

He’ll come for me.

Or send someone.

Actually, I’m not sure how this works. So, I take a shaky breath.

The woman, Detective Lintra, informs me of my Miranda rights, and a frisson of anxiety ripples down my spine, even though she explains everyone is routinely provided this statement prior to questioning. Nonetheless, my nerves are tingling and beginning to fray.

I only half listen. I’m starting to panic, worried sick about Poe and Finn, too, who must be out of his mind with worry.

Part of me worries if I should be thinking about getting a lawyer, but honestly, the only lawyers I know personally are the ones I used to work for.

I’m pretty sure neither of them will come running after I left them in the lurch after New Year’s Eve.

And, other than Ben, who will find out where I am soon enough, who can I call who will actually be able to help? I’ll admit I haven’t tried terribly hard to reach out to Finn or Rose all week, but I’ve been busy.

Eating gorgeous food and hanging out with my sexy new boyfriend. And sleeping.

I’ve never slept so much in my life, but I figure I’m making up for decades of never getting enough.

I decide to answer what I can truthfully, and just be really careful to only give up information that will help Poe.

After a pointed silence where we all size each other up, Detective Lintra finally remarks, “Anything you want to tell us before we get started?”

Mystified, I shake my head _no_.

“Where were you three nights ago?”

This throws me off. I’m expecting questions about Poe, and all the way here I’ve been mentally prepping for it.

“What?”

“Three nights ago? Where were you?”

“Um. At home. I mean. At Ben Solo’s penthouse.”

Fuck. I already sound like I’m trying to cover up something suspicious. My cheeks turn pink in the mirror across from me. Someone is probably watching from the other side of the reflective glass.

“You live with Mr. Solo?”

“Yeah.” They exchange a glance and I ask, “What does this have to do with Poe?”

Instead of answering my question, Wexley takes something from the box he brought in and sets a plastic evidence bag on the table. Inside is a pair of white cotton panties. I recognize them right away.

They're mine.

I know they’re mine because the elastic at the top was just starting to fray and I was debating on whether they’d last another couple of weeks.

And because I’m pretty sure those are the ones that went missing from my apartment when Kylo–

I can feel my face drain of color, but I don’t say a word. I don’t need to.

“Where did you get those?” I hiss. My heart starts a slow, hard thump and I hope they can’t hear it.

“How about you let us ask the questions, Miss Johnson?”

I swallow. My ears are ringing. Something feels very, very wrong.

Wildly, I wonder how the hell my underwear is involved in a murder investigation when Wexley brings out another evidence bag. This time, I need to clutch the edge of the table when I recognize what’s inside.

_Oh, fuck, Poe._

He doesn't know the gun was stolen.

“What’s that?” My voice is shaking. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“This is the weapon that killed Moden Canady. Registered to one Porter Dameron. Someone tried to make it look like a suicide.”

I feel like someone punched me in the gut. I can’t catch my breath.

_Canady’s dead?_

“I – I…” I stop. I should not be talking.

“Your fingerprints are all over the gun and the remaining bullets that were found inside. You can imagine our surprise when we found your prints already in the system.”

_Oh. Oh, damn. My fingerprints. From that thing that happened…oh._

Fuck.

“What is your relationship with Mr. Dameron?”

“He’s…my best friend’s husband." My eyes are filling with tears, and I hate it, this freezing paralysis. "I d-don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand? Miss Johnson. You are in a lot of trouble right now. Big trouble. I want to help you, but I need answers. I want to believe this is all just a mistake. But I need you to help me put the pieces together.”

Wexley makes a convincing plea. I would almost believe he is sincere if I didn’t think he is lying through his teeth.

I learned long ago not to trust the authorities. Now should be no different.

“We already talked to your friend Finn. He said he gave you a gun. That you were worried and wanted protection.”

“He did. I was, I mean I did.”

“Protection from what, Miss Johnson?”

_Don’t make a sound. Not one sound. He’ll find you, he’ll get you._

I don’t have any proof.

“Someone was bothering me. He texted me.”

_Keep your phone handy._

_and remember shhh_

_xx, K_

Fuck, I left my phone at the penthouse, I was in such a hurry to leave. Privately, I curse Mitaka for rushing me out the door so fast.

Lintra opens the folder and slides a glossy photo across the table. It’s Canady in a hospital bed. Ostensibly still alive but with his face all beat up.

_What the hell happened to him?_

“Let’s talk about texting. You ever send any… _private_ pictures to your former boss? Mr. Canady?”

“Ew! No.” My reaction is instant and horrified.

“How about to anyone else?”

I feel my face heat to dull red and glare at Detective Wexley. He licks his teeth and I want to attack him and wipe that smug, disgusting look off his face. For a very brief moment, I wish looks could kill.

In light of my missing underwear being present and the gun that was stolen from my place being a murder weapon, I am deeply reluctant to mention Kylo.

Instead, I inhale and prevaricate, “It’s not illegal to send a picture, last time I checked.”

“It’s illegal to lure someone to a secluded location and coerce a friend to beat him to a pulp. And murder, that’s illegal, too,” Wexley replies without missing a beat.

My heart is pounding so hard.

Kylo must’ve figured out I talked to Ben. Maybe he's noticed all the security and now he’s retaliating since he can’t get to me anymore.

“Am I being accused of something?” I hedge. I would get up and leave if I thought I could get out the door without my legs collapsing under me.

“Not yet.”

Detective Lintra plants both fists on the table and leans in. “Tell me about your relationship with Moden Canady.”

“I worked for him. That’s it–”

Wexley slides another picture across the table. This one is old but hauntingly familiar.

“This isn’t your first run-in with the law, is it, Miss Johnson?”

Suddenly, the air in the room is unbreathable. My lungs are seizing up. I can’t fucking breathe.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve turned to violence to get your way.”

He slides another photograph under my nose.

_…shhhhh…_

There’s red paint everywhere.

No.

Not paint.

It’s blood.

I remember.

_Don’t look at it. Don’t look._

“That’s a _bad_ injury. You must not have cared if he lived or died.”

This is why I don’t fucking trust cops. Why I would never, ever go to them for help. They would _never_ believe me now, not when they didn't before.

It happened right before I turned eighteen. My senior year in high school. My math teacher kept me after class and tried to touch me, pinned me against his desk and tried to kiss me. I smashed him in the face with a three-hole punch. The heavy-duty kind.

I knocked him out cold and I was so shaken, it took me a few minutes to call for help.

When the cops arrived, I tried to explain. He had a broken jaw and was missing a few teeth. Needed stitches. But there wasn’t a mark on me. And Mr. Randd lied and said I attacked him because I was angry about my last math test.

Of course, no one believed me. Why would they? I was just some nobody foster kid. My own parents didn’t even want me. Why would Mr. Randd?

The charges were dismissed by the local judge, a case of he-said-she-said. But I had to switch to a new school and make up classes over the summer. I missed graduation. Lost my scholarships.

Nobody ever believed me except for Finn. And Rose.

Before that incident, I clung to the slight hope that maybe my parents would change their minds and come back for me. If I was good enough. If I didn’t make trouble.

If I kept my head down and waited.

They never did. And after that run-in with the law, Finn, as gently and kindly as possible, told me if my parents hadn’t come for me by then, they never would.

My reputation was trashed and in a small town like Niima, it would be a mark I would live with forever.

Once I accepted Finn's words, I was ready to write off Niima for good and never come back.

I ignore the old photos and a spike of defiance shoots through me.

Fuck these assholes.

“I have a stalker," I assert. "I borrowed the gun from Finn because I was scared he was going to hurt me. Poe didn’t even know. He has nothing to do with any of this.”

“A stalker?” I can hear the doubt in Wexley's voice and I want to scream. “Huh. I haven’t seen any police reports. Did you file one?”

“No, but…” This is that same exact tone of disbelief and I feel like I'm back in Niima. Tears well once again, only this time from frustration. 

“Do you have any proof? Of this stalker?”

“No, I–” My letter from Jakku with his note on the back went missing when the gun did. And I cleaned Kylo’s message off the bathroom mirror. “Ask my friend Finn, he’ll tell you. And Ben Solo, he knows. He saw…”

Ben only saw the bullets in my medicine cabinet. And the picture of me and Rose.

It's not evidence. Not really. 

My heart sinks.

He’s not even writing it down, and I can tell by the scorn dripping from his voice he doesn’t believe a word.

“Sooo…other than your best friend from childhood, the one who gave you the murder weapon and who also happens to be married to our main suspect, and the word of your, uh…sugar daddy? You don’t have any proof? Right.” He winks and I want to throw something at him.

Lintra pipes in, “When we talked to Finn Storm he said you’ve been acting paranoid. Erratic. He admits he gave you the gun.”

She pushes another grisly photo in front of me. It's Canady again, only this time there's an obvious bullet wound in his skull. Bile rises to the back of my throat and burns there.

Staring at the picture, I can only swallow down the rising waves of fear and nausea before I finally claim, “I want a lawyer.”

“That is a very good idea, Miss Johnson. Lawyers cost money. Do you have someone on retainer?”

Wexley’s eyes land on my diamond bracelet and I decide to wait. I'm not saying another goddamned thing.

Ben will send someone. He has to know by now.

They can see it, the wall I put up, and Wexley packs up his shit off the table and carries it from the room. I’m about to ask if I’m free to leave and take my fucking chances with running into Kylo when the door behind me swings open.

“I’d like a moment alone with my client,” a flat, cool voice from behind me says. It’s unfamiliar but authoritative and confident and oddly reminiscent of Hux the few times I’ve seen him in court.

Relief washes through me. Ben must have sent him, thank God.

“Vos. Nice to see you’re still able to slither out from under your rock every once in a while.”

The spiteful, hostile tension in the air is thick enough to spread like butter.

Nevertheless, the cops shuffle out and a tall, attractive, strawberry blonde man in a six-thousand dollar suit seats himself across from me. He’s utterly emotionless, with pale eyes and handsome if one discounts the startling, violent scars snaking from the top of his scalp down his face, to disappear into the collar of his starched shirt.

“Rey Johnson?” He ignores my initial reaction to his appearance and I feel a twinge of guilt. He probably gets it all the time, and my staring is terribly rude.

“Yes?” I force myself to meet his eyes instead of lingering on the scars.

“Dryden Vos. I’m here to help.”

“Hi. Thank you.”

He flashes a rather charming smile and insists with a touch of bolstering arrogance, “I’m very good. Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out.”

I know he’s good. I’ve heard of him. He’s the best criminal defense attorney in the state.

_Ben sent him. You're going to be okay._

“Am I going to be arrested?” The question comes out a little wavery.

His head wags back and forth. “They don’t have enough to charge you. Yet. Unless you confessed to something?”

“My fingerprints are on the bullets of the gun that killed Mr. Canady.”

He doesn’t even blink twice at this, just nods as if he knew already. “And the gun? I assume you had it in your possession at some point?”

There's no point in denying this.

“I borrowed it. Because I had… _have_ a stalker…the gun was stolen from my apartment a couple of weeks ago.”

“Solo told me. But you didn't report the theft to the police?”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I did it?”

He gives me a sharklike grin and it reminds me of Ben, although they look nothing alike.

“Nah. You have an alibi, according to Solo. Besides I’m not paid to care if you did it. And I’m more than willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Did Ben say anything?”

“He did. He wants you to know we’re going to take care of everything, but you’ll need to cooperate and stay quiet. No more running off with the cops, okay?”

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being quiet.

Dead silent, actually.

“Is he mad at me for coming down here?” Vos shrugs and I ask, “What about Poe? Mr. Dameron? Do you know what’s happened to him?”

“They can’t hold him for too long. If they can’t establish a motive and get something more than circumstantial evidence, they won’t even be able to charge him.”

“They said he was already charged.” 

Vos shoots me a look and I blush. Of course, they can say whatever they want to get me here. That's on the first page of the cop playbook and I should've known.

“I think those detectives were hoping to scare a confession out of you. Right now, the only thing linking Dameron to the case is him being attacked at the same time as Canady and the fact that it was his gun that killed the man.”

“Attacked?”

“They were both attacked at a New Year’s Eve party last week. Canady was hospitalized. Dameron suffered a mild concussion.”

Something feels terribly, chillingly wrong.

“…and Ben?” My thoughts turn again to the blood I swear I saw on his shirt _that_ night. “What about him?”

“Mr. Solo hasn’t done anything.” Vos is watching me with that same, hawk-like evaluation Ben gives me sometimes. “Has he?” he asks silkily.

“No,” I whisper. But now I’m not so sure.

A bloodless sneer crosses Vos's scarred face and he grunts, “Then I wouldn’t worry about him.” Under his breath, he adds in a near whisper, “Anyone in this town with the last name _Solo_ is pretty much untouchable.”

Ben might be untouchable, but I know Kylo was the one who killed Canady. I feel it in my gut.

Vos stands and comes around the table to help me into my coat. “Mr. Solo is waiting for us in his car just outside, but there’s a bit of a media crush. Can you keep your head down? Stay quiet to the press?”

“Of course.”

I stand, heart pounding, and clench my teeth together.

I feel slightly better as we leave, even though I sense the weight of every gaze in the station on us as we stride quickly to the elevator and ride down to the lobby in silence. I can hear the ruckus outside even as we head through the lobby and out the front doors.

The forewarned “media crush” is overwhelmingly noisy, and the instant the doors open, Vos grips my arm and hollers, “No comment!” into the blinding camera flashes and escalating questions.

Disoriented, I allow Vos to propel me down the steps to the sidewalk. I catch a glint of black on the street beyond and assume Ben is waiting for me just behind the tinted glass windows of his town car.

But people are pressing in on all sides, shouting questions and shoving microphones at me.

It’s pure happenstance when I glance into the chaos and see a familiar face.

It’s Bazine Netal. An old schoolmate from Niima.

I’m so surprised, I stumble to a halt and Vos momentarily loses his grip on my arm.

Bazine’s eyes lock on mine and I freeze. We used to get mistaken for each other sometimes, from a distance or from behind, until I chopped off my hair in eleventh grade.

It’s like peering into a mirror and seeing a version of myself that might have been, had Fate been less kind, just a little crueler.

Bazine had a bad reputation in school, and she was in foster care like me, but she ended up getting busted for drugs and spending a lot of time in juvie.

She was the one who gave me my first line of coke, actually. And some weed a few times, although we never really hung out a lot. She ran with a rougher crowd and I know if it weren’t for Finn and Rose, I would have probably landed in her exact shoes.

I pity her. The intervening years have not been kind. She looks unwell, and I hate to judge, but she looks like she never stopped doing hard drugs.

Still, it’s a remarkable coincidence she’s _here_ of all places. She recognizes me, too, over the shouting, clamoring journalists and camera flashes.

Despite her frail appearance, she shoves her way to the front of the crowd and bellows, “Rey! _Rey!_ ”

I can feel Vos behind me shouting, “No questions!”

But the wild look in Bazine’s eyes draws me forward, and I hurry to her. The noise is deafening, but I get close enough for Bazine to grab the lapels of my coat and pull me close as if for a hug.

Her grip is unrelenting and she shouts against my hair.

“…thinks I’m you…is watching me…bad…not…who you think…dangerous! You hear me? Not safe!”

I feel her hand in my coat pocket and a thrill of terror freezes me in place until a journalist elbows her out of the way and shoves a mic in my face. I am vastly tempted to check my pocket and see what she gave me, but Vos is already dragging on my arm, hauling me to the waiting car. The door swings open and Vos shoves me inside, where Ben is waiting. Vos clambers in behind and Mitaka is already pulling away from the curb before the door slams shut.

“What the fuck is the press doing here?” Ben snarls as he pulls me into his lap.

Suddenly overwhelmed, I bury my face in his shoulder, and, breathing in the clean, expensive scent of him, proceed to bawl my eyes out all over his neck while Dryden Vos starts talking.

But all I can think of is that Bazine is in grave danger if what she says is true.

Kylo is going to hear all about this. He's going to be furious.

Especially if he knows I just talked to the police. Which he will, what with all this publicity.

If Kylo thinks she’s me, I have no way to reach her, to warn her in return.

She burrows closer and clings to him, all the way back to his building. He’s sure he spotted Bazine Netal shouting to her in the swarm of reporters just now and resolves to get the details as soon as Vos is gone.

Bazine must have been watching the news and heard Rey was brought in for questioning. Good. 

Calling in that anonymous tip to several reporters had the unintended effect of drawing out his decoy. Now maybe Snoke will finally come out to play.

Which is fine. He’s ready.

Meanwhile, he kisses Rey's hair and listens as her shuddering sobs settle into quiet sniffs and an occasional hiccup while Vos fills him in on the current situation.

_You’re my little puppet, aren’t you, baby girl? And I’m the fucking puppet master._

Vos informs him the police don’t have enough evidence to charge Dameron, but promises to stay on the case. Rey too will be protected from prosecution unless her alibi falls through.

_That's me, baby. See how much we need each other?_

She’ll want to stick with him from here on out.

He perks up when Vos asks, “Miss Johnson? Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to cause trouble?”

Rey stirs and sits up a bit. “Um. Not really.”

“What about anyone who has been acting suspiciously?”

“Your old landlord, baby." He keeps his voice low, gentle. "My guys found out he’s being paid to keep tabs on you, remember?”

She blinks at him, utterly confused. “What?”

Her lips are trembling, and she’s going to start crying again.

Perfect.

“I told you all about it. Yesterday,” Ben lies, glancing significantly over to Vos.

“You did? I mean…yeah, I guess.”

To Vos, he utters, “We don’t know who or why someone’s watching her.”

“It’s _him,_ ” she whispers with such fear in her voice a thrill runs down his spine.

Vos narrows his eyes. “Who?”

Ben shushes her by pressing her head back to his shoulder and muttering, “Some bastard’s been stalking her. Can’t you see how terrified she is?”

He strokes her hair and slips a hand under her coat so he can feel the warm curve of her hip and give her a reassuring squeeze. She melts against him instantly, and he decides she’s earned a reward. Maybe he'll let her stay awake tonight. Spoil her with a bubble bath and a nice, relaxing fuck.

Sometimes a caress teaches better than a strike. Now that the game is fully in play, he’ll need to be extra careful not to startle her into running anywhere but in the direction he wants.

This game is so much more fun to play with a partner. Even if she's completely unaware she's even on the board.

_You'll thank me in the end. Yes, you will._

And until the endgame comes around, he's simply playing by the basic principle of mutually assured destruction.

He’s already pulled the pin on the grenade and put it in her hands.

So long as she holds the safety lever down, they’re fine.

And if she lets go? 

Well, if the winner can't take all, then there really isn't a point in winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been a bit crazy these past few weeks, my loves, and while I had no intentions to slow down on updates, it happened. As always, I adore your comments and I hope to have more updates coming soon on SEVERAL fronts.
> 
> This chapter had lots happening, so I decided this was a good stopping point before the dominoes begin to fall...I will remind you to read the tags. A few things that have been tagged from the start are coming up. A few tags have been added. Things are going to get violent. And dark. And dramatic. And deliciously horrible.
> 
> I can't fucking wait.
> 
> If you can't see the writing on the wall, I'll be blunt: Bad stuff is coming and Bastard Ben will be in full villain mode from here on out. But...*rubs hands together*...ohhhh, I'm excited about what is in store for our dear heroine. You have no idea.
> 
> Hope all is well and wherever you are in the world, be safe, be happy, and love each other without reservation or remorse.
> 
> xoxoxo!


	21. disarm

# 

# disarm

Rey’s little sobs have turned to sniffles, and even though he really wants nothing more than to bask in her obvious distress and the way it makes her cling to him, he knows he ought to pay attention.

But it’s difficult to concentrate with her squirming in his lap and her soft breath shushing over the side of his neck. With a light sweep of his fingers, he brushes a stray lock of hair from her forehead and mentally runs through his list of to-dos.

Distracted, he finds himself heartily wishing Vos would evaporate so he and Rey can have some alone time and maybe finish what they started before the police arrived at his penthouse.

Vos stops talking and Rey settles down, eventually. For the remainder of the ride, Ben dwells on the dark days before this, of how he was forced to shuffle through her life in the shadows, sifting through her pitiful possessions to glean some hint of her state of mind, to discover the clues to her inner self.

And this leads him to ruminate on the even darker days before then, before he could put his grandfather’s trust fund to good use and find her again.

All that lost time. Rey, growing up in a world she was not born into, learning how to navigate a system she was never supposed to live in.

But they found each other again, and he ought to be thanking his lucky stars she’s come through with such strength of character, such adaptability.

_Now I’m close enough to truly know you._

These days are so much better than before, when he didn’t even know if she’d survived that night. Before he knew her name or her favorite kind of ice cream or how she likes to read in the bathtub and eat and listen to jazz music, all at the same time. As if she were trying to cram every possible pleasure she could find into those limited minutes of an otherwise joyless existence.

He thinks about the little tragedies she’s endured since childhood, and he vows once again to keep her safe from the harshness of the world, now that she’s his.

_You’re mine in everything but name, aren’t you, sweetheart? A technicality we’ll have remedied soon._

For some reason, Amilyn Holdo’s words push to the forefront of his thoughts.

_Sleeping pills will only do so much. You’ve been living an empty life. You’re a spoiled, bored curmudgeon…without a useful outlet for all of that…pent-up energy, you’ll never be able to rest. Find a hobby. Something that makes you tired. Let me know if you ever need something stronger to…wear yourself out._

She’d given him a lascivious wink and handed him a prescription for sleeping pills and crossed her legs in such an obvious come-on, he would have fucked her just for punishment had he not already fallen so desperately in love with Rey.

Besides the thought of screwing the same woman who had a fling with his father leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

Not that either of them knows he is aware of their affair.

Part of him is tempted to set a match to that particular keg of gunpowder just to watch the explosion.

But he’ll keep it to himself and only mention it if he needs to. Blackmailing people like Holdo – people who so rabidly care about the opinions of others – is his best, most effective tool.

For now, he needs Holdo on his side and it’s awfully enjoyable, sitting on a secret that could destroy his father.

_Nona always said secrets are for keeping._

_And you’re my best-kept secret, aren’t you, sweetheart?_

As if in answer to this silent question, Rey tucks herself into his embrace, evidently seeking a hug. Poor girl thinks she wasn’t wanted, that her family never loved her. But they’re dead and she’s not and he’s already planning on making it up to her and for the years they were apart.

He doesn’t mind doing what it takes to make her happy.

His lawyers have already begun the process of setting up an endowment for her foster care charity. Although he was taken by surprise when she asked for it, he supposes he shouldn’t be. And he has no real reason not to give it to her, particularly since he’s sure his mother will heartily approve and his accountants will appreciate the tax write-off.

_I suppose you’ll convert me into a true philanthropist if I let you have your way._

This turn of events amuses him, even if he generally doesn’t enjoy being caught off guard. He can still buy her a car, though he’ll wait and see if and how she asks him for another one. He wonders what might prompt her to attempt another bargain with him, what might entice her to offer such tantalizing pieces of herself in exchange for material things – things he’ll happily give her – only to discover later how her true, softer nature will ultimately prevail.

That she changed her mind about the Bugatti speaks to the depths of her integrity. Not everyone can overcome a bitter childhood in the foster system and still want to make a difference.

He won’t deny his family’s role in making that hardship a part of her, and though it doesn’t change the past, it will help her adjust to a new future.

In a different world, they would have been natural enemies. Had things played out another way.

Somehow none of it matters, and he recalls his reaction to her the moment she tossed wine in his face at Hux’s wedding reception.

 _Either I’m going to kill her or I’m beginning to like her_ , he’d thought at the time. And his feelings have only deepened since then.

Stricken by the rather discomfiting notion he’s gone and done the exact thing he’s been warned not to do all his life, he kisses the top of her head to cover his startlement.

Love is a weakness and such strong feelings of attachment are too easily exploited, as well he knows, particularly since he is all too aware of how easy it is to twist her own feelings for her friends to meet his ends.

Nona warned him of this many times, and he would be wise to remember it.

Still, he won’t deny Rey anything she wants, so long as it doesn’t interfere with his own designs.

He’ll even allow her to maintain her friendships as long as she knows where her priorities lie.

Finn Storm and Rose Tico both played a role in bringing Rey to New York, not to mention in helping her through some difficult times. She’s forged her own family of sorts, an admirable quality, and a sign of endurance he will not begrudge, so long as she continues to play the role in which he desires.

He doesn't relish the idea of sharing her, but she’s too soft-hearted to cut out her friends entirely, even if she has just cause. If Rey and her friends ever parted ways she’d pine for them relentlessly. And if he were to actively pressure her into dividing her loyalties, this would only drive a wedge between them.

Ben well knows the feeling of being caught in the middle, forced to choose between two unpalatable outcomes. Knowing the cost, he won’t force Rey into this position, and perhaps now he can ease up on his application of the metaphorical strap, so to speak.

Besides, her friends are busy enough with their own problems, he reminds himself smugly.

Plus, Canady is dead, and Plutt will be found any day now, exterminated like the rest of the vermin infesting that horrid building in Hell’s Kitchen.

And Bazine Netal is about to meet with a very unhappy misfortune, as well. Just as soon as her usefulness comes to an end.

Her appearance at the precinct was a fantastic coincidence that plays in his favor beyond his wildest expectations. And although she'd run to intercept Rey on her own, never realizing Ben was dangling Rey like bait for an entirely different fish, she'll attract the attention of Ben's true quarry.

Snoke.

He’ll definitely be able to work this angle and kill two birds with a single stone.

Particularly if his plans to force Snoke into the open go the way he intends.

Which they will.

Meanwhile, Rey is right where she belongs, trembling in his arms and so focused on the illusion of danger all around, she doesn’t even notice the true beast she’s curling up to, though it will happen soon enough. He’ll need to brace himself for it.

She has a spectacular temper.

He’s not quite ready to pull back this particular curtain, however. Not yet.

Far easier and more effective to disarm her gently. Easier to have her give up these last scraps of resistance willingly, rather than to try and rip them from her hand.

When they arrive at his building, Ben is pleased to note his security team has done its job and cleared any potential paparazzi from the area. Vos exits the car and, as a distraction, Ben murmurs, “That woman who spoke to you outside the precinct? You know her?”

“An old schoolmate,” Rey answers. “She…wanted to say hello, is all.”

_Ah, baby girl. You shouldn’t lie to Daddy._

Anyone could see the fear in Bazine’s eyes, and if not hear her words, then at least guess the general tone she was trying to convey. The woman was clearly terrified.

As she should be.

He smirks into Rey’s hair while he waits for Mitaka to open their door.

He’ll let it go for now. But his baby needs to learn she can’t hide things from him, even if she thinks it’s for the best.

As they enter the lobby, he offers an arm and she takes it without hesitation.

They ride up the elevator in silence. Her muffled question comes out halfway up.

“What happened to his face? Mr. Vos?”

“Vos used to work for a powerful crime syndicate. The, uh, scars are an unfortunate result of the only time he lost a court battle.”

“Oh. Shit. That poor man.” Rey sounds appalled, and Ben finds himself disconcerted by his sudden, genuine desire to reassure her.

She’ll have him wrapped around her pretty little finger soon if he isn’t careful.

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” Instead of demanding she turn her thoughts from Dryden Vos, he busses his lips over her temple. “It was a long time ago.”

_My sweet little girl has a sympathetic heart. You’ll hand it over soon enough._

But it is this thought that unnerves him like nothing else. Her loving him back is the only thing he cannot truly control, much as he’d love to convince himself otherwise.

It’s the one thing he can’t buy, the one truth he can’t coerce. And as exhilarating as it is to gamble with something other than money, it is entirely possible he might not win.

A glimmer of doubt prickles his confidence and he shoves it away with a brutal push. Failure with Rey is not an option, and so he won’t fail.

_I’m going to marry you. And then I’m going to give you a perfect life._

She’ll say yes. She has to.

He’s already laid too careful a path.

She just needs to give in the rest of the way, that final, mouthwatering last little bit, a stronghold of stubborn will and gritty iron embedded at the very core of her. He wants it, and he’ll have it from her one way or the other.

“You smell like the police station,” he remarks as the elevator doors slide open.

The penthouse is quiet in the way a wholly unoccupied place is, and Rey notices immediately.

“Everyone’s gone?”

“I dismissed the staff before I came to pick you up. Although I expect Pryde left something in the fridge.”

There really isn’t a need to have staff hovering all the time, now that their alibis are established.

“Is Pryde not coming back?”

“No. I figured you would want some peace and quiet. After everything. It’s just us now.”

She doesn’t put up a fight when he strips off their coats and leads her upstairs.

This is how he likes her best. His docile, trusting little doll.

It’s hard to hold back when she's like this, hard not to batter her down and be done with it. But in the long run, it will be better if he slips under her defenses like water, not a battering ram. Perhaps unconsciously, she’ll be expecting blunt force, something reminiscent of their first few encounters, when he was forced to demonstrate in no uncertain terms how he holds the upper hand.

But now, _now_ is the real challenge, a true balancing act.

He’s forced his way in, even if she still holds the illusion of choice, of power. Turning her now requires a much lighter hand and far more finesse.

Before she knows it, he’s drawn a bubble bath and lit a few candles, which she eyes with too much suspicion, and all too soon he has her stripped down and neck-deep in bubbles.

“You want to be alone for a bit?” he asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

Predictably, she shakes her head _no_.

Something hot and sinuous uncurls itself in him as he peels off his sweater and shirt and kneels behind her, dipping his hands into the steaming hot bath.

He scoops water over her back and arms for a minute or two, admiring the graceful line of her neck and shoulders. From this vantage, the soft swells of her bosom are obscured by bubbles and he lightly skates his hands down, roaming beneath the water to fondle her soapy, warm skin.

_Mine._

“You didn’t tell me Plutt was being paid to watch me,” she murmurs, stirring him from his reverie.

“Didn’t I?” He knows damn well he didn’t, but instead of arguing, he pulls her closer. “Well, he _was_ watching you. Reporting your comings and goings for a while now. From what my investigator tells me.”

“Do you think it’s him? Kylo, I mean? Who was paying him?”

Ben shrugs, slightly jealous of his alter ego for once. He would have her focused on _him_ , Ben, at the moment.

She takes his silence as a sort of answer and sighs.

“Do you think it was Kylo who killed Mr. Canady?” Her voice is shaky and he hides his exasperation over her obvious sympathy for her dead boss.

“He won’t hurt you,” Ben promises softly, scooping warm water over her shoulder and kissing the damp side of her neck.

She mutters a doubtful, “Pfft. He said he would. Said he’d–”

“Said he’d what?”

“He said if I ever told anyone what happened…he’d make me sorry.” This is whispered with such naked terror, Ben crouches over the edge of the tub and rains wet little sucking kisses up her neck and over her jaw until he can give her a lingering kiss that leaves her gasping.

“You’re afraid. You don’t need to be.”

 _You don’t ever need to fear anything but me, princess_. _And then only if you try to leave._

She turns to face him and he can’t help but dip his head again and taste the latent fear he instilled all those years ago. Her lips cling so tremulously to his, he forgets himself and vows, “I will never let anything hurt you. Ever. I swear.”

_I own you. Yes, I do._

“I was so scared. In that police station. They thought I was involved with Canady. They found…they found…”

Inwardly, he smirks. He knows damned well what they found since he was the one who gave the items to Fett to plant on the body in the first place. But she’s crying again, and he can’t very well convince her to marry him when she’s all worked up over her dead ex-boss.

And even though her cheeks are stained from crying and her hair is a tangled, damp mess and she looks like a bedraggled little mouse, frightened and small and all too easily mauled by a sharp-taloned predator like him, something in her gaze compels him to caution.

_Danger._

_She could ruin me if she wanted to. Utterly._

_Fuck, no that isn’t true._

_You’ve already ruined me._

Hypnotized, he pulls her from the tub, dripping water and bubbles everywhere. He stands her on a soft mat and rubs a warm towel over her skin until she’s flushed pink from the gentle abrasion of the cloth.

_I’ll fucking ruin you, too._

The monumental significance of this revelation is quickly overshadowed by something else in her eyes.

Want.

No, _need_.

He’s still crouched in front of her and it’s all too easy to grasp her by the hips and shuffle her back, smashing her against the wall with only the towel around her shoulders to protect her from the chill tiles.

For a moment, he kneels there, looking up, evaluating the best approach to disarm her entirely. Tenderly, deliberately, he brushes the edge of her towel away, drawing his thumb over the lovely pink flesh of her sex, nosing close to the heat at the juncture of her thighs, caught up in the soft scent of her arousal.

He kisses her there and her whole body trembles and he decides if he’s going to be ruined then she’ll damned well join him and when his tongue skims along her petal-soft lips, she cries out, incoherent.

_Mine._

“Ben,” she whispers and it shreds him open, an unexpected violence of emotion in the midst of passion. “Please.”

Her voice carries too much command and not enough subservience and he’ll punish her for it later.

But for now, he licks and sucks and draws the swollen nub of her clitoris between his lips, flicking it with his tongue until she shudders and her knees give out.

Fuck, he’s going to unravel soon, and so is she by the sound of it, by the _smell_ of it, so he uses his thumbs to spread her open and devour that sultry flesh, groaning when her fingers spear into his hair and pull, demanding, insistent, hard.

She’ll fall over if he keeps going, so he slides up, dragging his tongue across the velvet skin over her belly and ribs and pausing to spend a long minute laving at the hard little tips of her breasts. He doesn't stop until she’s clawing at him, pushing into his mouth with wanton eagerness, practically trying to climb him. Until she’s fumbling at the front of his pants and gasping his name, and _fuck_ , this is fucking torture but he lets her have this, lets her think she's in control.

Later…well, later, if he wants to give her a cup of night-night juice and knock her on her ass and fucking take whatever he wants, well, then he fucking will. Later, he can do whatever the fuck he wants and it’s none of her concern.

But not right now. As much as he likes fucking her while she’s sleeping just because he can, he’s missed her breathy little sighs and moans, missed her enthusiastic participation in the act, no less mesmerizing because she’s so fucking _into_ it, always so eager to get his cock between her legs.

She gets his pants undone eventually and frees him from his boxers, so careful, not quite confident enough to grip him as hard as he wants. He presses into her hand, encouraging a firmer touch.

“You want it? Yeah?” 

_“Mmm-hmmm…”_

She peppers hot little kisses along his jaw and neck and a rare, undisciplined moan escapes him when her wet, warm tongue slides along the ridge of his ear. Breathing hard, he scoops her up and drapes her thighs over his, pinning her hands to the wall. Her towel slides to the floor, and she flinches against the cold tiles, so he pulls her hips forward, closer, practically blind with need.

“Help me…like that…good… _fuck_ …” he grunts, guiding himself to the only place in the world where he wants to be.

There’s nothing better than watching her expression in this first, initial incursion. The way her eyes dilate and her breath hitches when he melds them together. It’s the same every time, that same shocked gasp of amazement, that same shivering welcome, the same drag and pull of her flesh slipping against his when he pulls back, only to give way when he pushes in again.

_I’ll ravish you slowly and ruin your defenses so quietly you’d never even know what I’ve done until it’s too late._

He shifts, altering the angle to an intoxicating tilt, controlling the motion of her hips and reveling in the firm, round flesh under his palms, drunk on the way her dainty pink nipples harden and brush tantalizingly against his chest.

_All mine._

Everything about her is designed just for him, specifically for his delectation.

But she draws back, staring at him so heatedly, he slows even more.

“What are you thinking about?” he croons, wedging himself closer with a wary, devastating stroke. If he does it just right – like this – and if he kisses that spot – right there – she clenches down enough to make his head spin.

Like that.

“Fuck.”

He pushes his tongue in her mouth and does it again.

“You’re thinking about this, aren’t you? Thinking about how much you love the way my cock fills you up.”

“Please…don’t stop doing that,” she begs. Her voice is all high-pitched and whiny and needy. Just for him, all his. God, she sounds like a broken little doll.

“You like it? The way I’m fucking you right now?”

“Yeah.” She locks her ankles and digs her heels into his butt and he grabs her by the throat and shoves her back just hard enough to remind her who’s in charge.

“Fuck, I know you like it. You’re soaking wet.”

She whimpers and gives him the prettiest plea and he almost, _almost_ forgets his point.

_I’m going to marry you._

He can see it in her eyes, the hesitation. A touch of fear. They’re going up in flames. She’s scared of fire.

_Oh, no. No retreat now, baby girl._

Instead of stopping, he attacks her mouth next, a blistering assault. She has nowhere to run, not from this. He persists, pinning her hips with his and flexing in a steady, meticulous tempo until she’s quivering and only breathing the air he exhales.

“You gonna come for me?”

“Ye–”

Impatient, he cuts off her reply, taking her sweet soft mouth and fucking into her tight little cunt until she squirms and arches. She’s as easy to read as an open book. She wants him to move faster, wants more friction. More heat.

She’s this close. He moans lightly, shifting them yet again into an unsteady bounce until the head of his cock bumps against her womb. His adrenaline is slipping away, quickly burning up in this raw lust, consuming everything in its path. He won’t be able to hold back much longer.

“Marry me,” he commands, drilling his gaze into hers.

She gasps and her pussy squeezes him so exquisitely he chokes and buries his sweat-damp forehead in the crook of her neck, pumping harder, stoking them into an inferno.

A wild moan escapes her and she digs her fingernails into his back hard enough to draw blood.

“Marry me.” He growls against her neck. “Deep down, you know me. And I know you.”

She whimpers and a rush of endorphins pulls a husky groan out of him, long and low.

“And you need me.”

He sheaths himself in her again, stroking hard enough to jar her teeth together.

“And you need this. Don’t you?”

“But…why?” A tear slips down her cheek and he kisses it away, too close to the edge of losing himself.

“Because you’re _mine_.”

He can’t fucking explain it any better than this and he can’t stop staring, too afraid to close his eyes and miss the way her skin turns pink under the rasp of his whiskers, too afraid he’ll lose the scent of them together, the mingled taste of their passion on his tongue.

“Say yes,” he pants, practically snarling at the savage restraint he’s clinging to with everything he has. “Say you’ll marry me, and I’ll give you everything you ever wanted.”

Her shaking fingers trail across the back of his neck and he crushes her against the wall with another scorching kiss until she melts.

_Say it. Say you will._

“Marry me.”

“…why?”

_Because I’m the only one who can keep the monsters away, sweetheart._

If she wants an answer, he’ll give her one. This one.

Bewildered, she clings to his shoulders and he lifts her, locking her in place so he can hit deeper.

But she’s not giving in and he bares his teeth, seeking another route before he loses himself entirely.

“You feel me there? So deep in you?”

“Yes.” It’s quiet as the softest whisper.

“I want to be there, all the time. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ll never stop.” He punctuates this confession with a soft flex of his hips and a kiss meant to disarm the last of her resistance.

And it does. Her hesitance evaporates. Yes.

This is the way in. Oh, now he knows exactly what to do and how to do it.

“You’re mine. You’ll belong to me forever. You’ve always been mine. You just didn’t know it until now.”

He fucks into her again and moans when her slick, gripping walls flutter against him.

“Say you’ll marry me, Rey. And I'll never leave you. I swear.”

_I know every string to pull, every move to make. Say yes, baby._

“Y-yes.”

“Yes?”

“…yes…I’ll marry you.”

_Good girl._

A surge of pure, victorious delight boils out of him and he captures her promise with a kiss, sealing her words against his lips. Enthralled, he watches her fall apart, drinking in her gorgeous little cries of surrender, absorbing every flex of her wet, pulsing cunt.

She goes limp, barely holding on as she rides out the aftershocks.

He lifts her knees and pins her open, shoving into her without restraint. It's done, over. His turn.

“That feels good?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You want me to come, too?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, Daddy!”

“You want my cum in your pussy?”

"Yes!"

She arches and twists her hips and a scalding fist of pleasure wraps around the base of his spine, dragging him into the fire.

“.. _fuck_ , baby girl, you’re making me come so _fucking_ _hard_.”

She squeals into the side of his neck and her thighs clamp down and for a flawless, euphoric moment he’s high on it, fucking invincible, even as she wrenches a savage orgasm out of him. It’s endless, his release, so strong he gasps, a ragged moan crawling out of his throat. He gives over to the bone-melting waves of bliss, spurting hot, endless strings of cum until he’s quaking and sweat-slicked and wrecked.

_Fucking ruined. Fuck, we both are._

Good.

His arms and legs are trembling by the time her legs slide down from the crooks of his elbows. Weak in the aftermath, he leans her against the wall, relaxing into her.

But she shrieks and throws her arms around him and he shuffles her to the side.

“Oh, shit, are those tiles cold?” he chuckles, out of breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she breathes.

He feels like he’s been hit by a train or a bolt of lightning, but she’s shivering and staring up at him with such wide, petrified eyes he briefly wonders if she somehow put the pieces together too soon and figured everything out.

“Baby?” His heart stops beating until she sighs, then giggles.

“Ben, your pants are still on.” She snorts and covers her mouth with her hand and it’s so fucking cute it might actually kill him.

“Shit,” he mutters, bracing his palms on the tiles and toeing off his shoes one by one before stepping out of his pants.

And then she hits him with that hazel stare and something melts inside him.

Without another word, he hauls her over his shoulder and carries her to his bed – _their_ bed – and here he holds her until she’s quiet. Not asleep, but peaceful.

“Did you really agree to marry me?”

“Did you really mean to ask me to?”

“I’ve never meant anything more,” he promises. He can’t help his voice from ringing with the faintest of threats. She can’t back out now. He won’t allow it.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. And for the briefest of infinities, she’s a little girl again, pleading to him from the shadowed horrors of that long-ago night.

“Don’t be afraid. I feel it, too.”

He gets it, that crushing feeling of vulnerability, of weakness. To trust…it’s nearly impossible without building the proper safeguards to account for the inevitable.

He’s asking her to jump without a parachute, but she just doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, yet.

She will. She might still be a defenseless little girl.

But he is no longer a helpless teenager, nor is he dependent on others for survival as he was back then. He has learned to take hold of his fear and face it, stare it down and master it, master himself and those around him.

The unknown is still out there, true. But with the proper application of a cunning mind and a wholehearted willingness to entertain any plan, no matter how debased or ruthless, to achieve his will, he has learned Fate cannot hold him to her mercies anymore. And he won’t allow his Rey to be subjected to her cruel whims, either. Perhaps he had to make himself into a monster to do it. But if this is what was required – what _is_ required – to guard his darling girl against less discerning creatures than he, then perhaps it was not such a terrible trade to have made.

So long as he gets to keep her in the end, nothing else matters.

Besides. He’s grown much stronger since then and is more than willing to be the beast she needs him to be, even if she doesn't know it. And he possesses the resources to inflict some serious damage, particularly now that his grandfather’s trust fund is under his sole control.

His grandmother can handle his family. His parents. His uncle.

He’ll take care of Snoke personally.

And once those dragons are slain, or least neutralized, he’ll need to confront the most dangerous creature of all.

_Nona’s been plotting again. I can smell it from here._

She’s always been cleverer than anyone Ben knows, and a meticulous puppeteer. Between Nona’s machinations and his own ruthless willingness to do whatever it takes, they’ll need to slay one final, very old, very shrewd puppet master.

Rey will need to learn about him eventually. She’ll need to learn where she really comes from. But not yet.

After all, the world would crash itself to a halt if the puppets run the show.


	22. demolish

# 

# demolish

Do you ever have a dream where you find jewelry? Or money? Or something precious you’ve been looking for you didn’t even know was missing?

That’s how I feel right now. That extreme relief and a sort of almost panic that I need to hold onto the dream for as long as I can because I know deep down it’s too good to be true and any second I’m going to wake up.

Ben has never been so soft and sweet before, and it’s kind of bewildering when he lies down next to me and pets my hair and wedges a hard, hairy thigh between mine. He’s warm and curves around me like a big, muscly spoon.

I lie still and stay quiet. Maybe I feel a touch guilty for so readily accepting his proposal, obviously made in the heat of the moment.

I don’t know if I’m really, deep-down agreeing to this because I got swept away by the fantasy and his scorching-hot proposal. Or if it’s because I really want to have a relationship with him.

I feel like…I feel I hardly know him, and yet I feel like I know _everything_ about him.

After a few minutes, he purrs, “Stay right there,” and rolls out of bed, nothing but boundless energy and a vague malevolence I’ve come to realize is just part of his general demeanor.

I’m not afraid.

Not after what just happened.

I wonder what Ben is up to and half-hope he’s going to bring me back something to eat.

Before I can dwell too deeply on my reasons for saying yes, he returns, carrying a small, square, old-fashioned, jewelry box. I have a sneaking suspicion what’s inside, and I have no idea when on earth he found the time to get one.

But I sensed his sincerity when he proposed.

I can still feel it.

He meant every word.

He’ll take care of me. He’ll never let anyone hurt me. And he’ll never leave. Ever. This I know, even if I don’t know much else.

And.

He _needs_ me.

And let’s be real: I need him, too. I mean, maybe I don’t need to actually marry him to get what I need, but he’s already opening the box and showing me this enormous fucking diamond, and I’m a little bit blown away.

“It was my grandmother’s.” His voice lilts as if this fact is of particular significance, and I sit up, suddenly attentive. I think the grandma thing means more than the size-of-the-rock thing.

“Won’t your family freak out or something?” I blurt.

“Fuck them.” His softly-uttered reaction is no less vehement for its silky off-handed tones.

Tugging at my hand with a cocky smirk, he croons, “Let’s see how it fits. Hold out your finger, princess.”

I do and he slides the ring onto my finger, a perfect fit. Incredible.

"You're mine, now." 

I gasp and smile at him, even if my gaze quickly returns to the diamond.

The ring is rather awe-inspiring, a diamond solitaire the size of a cherry, set in what I now recognize as highly-patinaed platinum. Very valuable.

Rose will shit her pants when she gets a look at this.

And Finn, oh my God, I can't wait for his reaction.

“What do you want to do?” Ben asks, settling next to me again.

“Do?”

“For the…you know. The wedding.”

Fuck, he sounds almost shy, unsure. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I'm thinking.

“I don’t want a big fuss,” I assure him. “Nothing like Rose and Hux’s…”

I drift off, giving him a guilty look. His eyelid twitches, as I’m sure he remembers how awful I was that night.

But he doesn’t say a word about it, and I try to focus on his question. Unlike Rose, I never was one of those girls who fantasized about having a big wedding. 

Hell, I never thought I’d be asked.

I press my lips together before I try again. “Something small and tasteful?”

All I know is if we do a big ordeal, something that takes ages to plan and costs a small fortune, the entirety of New York will be looking at me. Watching my every move.

And I don’t want anyone to see me but Ben. I feel safe with him, but not in a way that makes any sense because I know he's dangerous, too.

_Don’t you ever, ever run away from me._

Besides, Kylo might try something if we have a big society wedding that everyone knows about. Bazine’s warning rings in my ears, and I belatedly remember she put something in my coat pocket earlier. I should probably go and check it out, but Ben is nuzzling his long, elegant nose behind my ear, and I sort of want to snuggle up to him and stare at my ring. Just for a while.

Although neither of us has actually said the words, yet…I think I might actually love him.

I mean. It’s definitely not the hearts and flowers kind of love. It’s the desperate, I’ll die if I have to live without you kind.

_I want to be there, all the time. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ll never stop._

“You okay?”

He’s watching me, still holding my hand, and I joke, “I’m going to need a shopping cart to haul this fucking rock around.”

Picking up the cue, Ben snickers, “Stay away from deep water or you’ll sink straight to the bottom if you fall in.”

I grin, and in a burst of spontaneity, I kneel on the mattress and straddle his waist. He hums in what I think is an amused sort of surprise, and I lean down so I can kiss him.

“I can’t swim, so I guess I’ll sink to the bottom either way.”

“Can’t swim, can’t drive,” he tuts, and a rare, teasing glint enters his pretty eyes. “What can you do?”

“I can type. Order take-out. Scavenge a thrift store for the very best bargains. Sew. Cut my own hair. And I’m pretty good at fixing broken things. Small home repairs. Stuff like that.”

Something dark haunts his expression and I seize up. But, like mercury, he changes moods too fast for me to catch whatever quicksilver emotion I missed.

“That is an excellent skill set.” He kisses me again, but I pull back.

“Are you sure you want to marry me?” I hate how insecure I feel, but the question is out before I can stop it.

“Yes.” He says it simply, without flamboyance. “We’ll go get our marriage license tomorrow afternoon. Maybe after that, tomorrow evening, we’ll host a small cocktail party with some close friends and family? To celebrate?”

I nod. This sounds good. Nothing too crazy, but something where I can practice being a fancy hostess.

“I’ll figure out something small and quiet for the ceremony. Then a long honeymoon. And then after, we’ll have to do something. To introduce you.”

“Introduce me to whom?” I scoff.

“Everyone. Society.” He means _society_ with a capital S, and a whisper of doubt curls around my heart.

“And then what?” I nudge closer until we’re belly to belly and he cups his huge, wonderful hands around my butt, pulling me into him.

“And then…just a lot of this.”

“Ass-grabbing?”

“Yeah.”

“And kissing?”

“Yep.”

“And fucking?” This comes out a little smooshed since his lips are plastered to mine.

“Definitely.”

He pushes his hips up and rubs tantalizingly against me.

“That sounds good.”

“I need to tell you something first.” He’s gone serious and grim, and everything stills at the gravity in his voice. “Two things, actually.”

“What things?”

“Well. I invited Rose to come for brunch in the morning so you can give her your news in person.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, watching me like I’m going to be upset.

“Did she say she’d come?”

“She did.”

I sigh. “Thank you. We’ve…I haven’t…” I don’t need to explain. He’s kissing my fingers and tugging at the tips with his teeth and it’s fucking distracting, anyhow. Besides, there’s no way I can explain why I’ve sort of been ignoring my friends since New Year’s Eve.

Ben must know he’s putting a tiny bit of pressure on me to make up with them.

“She’s your family, yeah?”

“She is.”

"Then you need to make things right with her."

Okay, a _lot_ of pressure. But he’s right. “And Finn?” He’ll need to know, too.

“I left him a message. But he might have a lot on his plate right now. With everything going on with his husband.”

Shit. For a little while, I’ve entirely forgotten Poe was accused of murdering Canady, and I've only just come from the police station. Before I ask for my phone to call Finn myself, I pause.

“What’s the second thing?”

That dark _look_ crosses his face again, and even when I know it’s not directed at me, I feel a chill.

“I got a message today. A threat about you.”

“A threat?”

He sighs and gives it to me straight.

“My PI called. He says whoever’s been watching you is probably going to attempt a kidnapping.”

She tenses up and he draws her closer.

“What?” she whispers, obviously terrified. This infuriates him, not her fear, precisely, but the fact someone else put it there.

According to Fett, the threat appears to be legitimate.

Ben heard the message just now when he went downstairs to fetch Rey’s ring and call Rose.

Snoke’s agent is pushing back and it’s all Ben can do to stay calm.

It’s been a long time since someone actively threatened something of his and he doesn’t fucking like it.

_Oh, but I’ll make sure whoever it is doesn’t fucking like it either, baby, don’t worry._

Still, perhaps it’s best if he sweeps Rey out of harm’s reach for a while.

He was right to take steps to be able to easily remove her from New York if needed. Even better if he can fly her anywhere in the world at a moment's notice and it will be difficult for a prospective kidnapper to follow.

Fiery rage burns in the pit of his stomach when he considers what could have happened if Fett hadn’t warned him.

She’s lying on top of him, all of her earlier playful horniness washed away by the tides of reality as she weeps silently all over his chest. He strokes her hair and her back, quietly fuming at the unknown, walking dead man who made her cry.

_I am going to annihilate him and everything he touches. He can’t possibly know who he’s been fucking with._

But Ben supposes he ought to be thankful, really. If anything sends Rey diving straight into his arms, it’s the threat of being taken by some invisible stranger.

Hell, Kylo should have thought of it first, and he hides a rueful smile.

“Sweetheart? Don’t be scared,” he assures her. “I’ll take care of it. But you need to know. In case anyone tries anything.”

“It’s Kylo,” she sniffs. “He’s never going to stop. He wants me _dead_. Wants to finish the job.”

A trace of unease trickles down his spine. She’s not entirely off-base, particularly since at one point, he, Kylo, seriously considered having her taken out.

She could still ruin him.

She told him everything back in that dressing room in a jumble of half-explanations and tears, an uncanny outline matching his own recollection of the events from that night.

Her actual memories will undoubtedly become more transparent if she concentrates on them.

Which is why he needs to hurry and proceed with his plan to destroy her credibility as a witness. Not just to save his own hide.

But to protect the others who were there, Rey included.

If the truth ever gets out, he’s fucked and he’s reconciled himself to the fact, having long ago taken measures to insure himself against the worst of any potential fallout.

But if Ben is fucked, then so is Snoke. And Snoke is a vicious, cold-blooded snake. If Snoke thinks they are making a move after all this time, he’ll destroy everything in his path. He’ll take out Rey in the most heinous way imaginable, just for the fun of it.

And then he’ll go after Ben’s entire family. Including Nona.

 _Especially_ her. Since Padmé Amidala was there, too, that night.

_Secrets are for keeping, Benji. You must never tell a soul what happened. I will do my best to cover it up. But this plan only works if you stay quiet. You must let her go. She is a child. She does not understand what she saw._

_She will disappear into obscurity and this is for the best. Any reappearance will cause you very great danger, indeed. It is better for us all if she never has cause to remember this night. And best if you forget, too, non?_

But Rey does remember the murders. Even if her nebulous descriptions of the people she saw sleeping and covered in red paint were obvious metaphors pulled straight from her child’s mind, she must know on some level what she really saw. 

Nona was right. It’s enough. And Snoke, if he’s clever, which he is, has undoubtedly been watching for treachery all this time, waiting for signs of threat.

_And when I instigated that not-so-legal search and found you, Snoke must have guessed who you are and realized you survived._

Only Snoke was too late.

Ben got to her first. In the nick of time, it seems.

_I ought to have had him taken out years ago, if I hadn't been so worried he’d slip away and retaliate._

Getting close enough to Snoke to actually kill him would have been impossible. It’s still going to be difficult. But Snoke is only getting older, and Ben has only grown more powerful in the intervening years since their last encounter.

Snoke is a dead man.

Soon.

And with Snoke dead and Rey firmly under his control, he’ll finally be able to address the real monster behind the curtain.

 _Let me handle him,_ Nona had warned. _He is not for the likes of you, Benji. He is dangerous and ruthless and very, very cunning. You will focus on your own secrets, non? Keep them. Live your life._

_I will neutralize the old spider. But you must swear to me you will never interfere. Ever._

He’d sworn, reluctantly, and the symbol of his vow hangs downstairs over the fireplace in the living room. As far as Ben knows, though, Nona never did manage to eliminate the old Russian.

_And if he has any idea who you are…oh, baby. You are in so much danger, and you don’t even know your real name._

Rey sniffles and rubs the corner of the sheet over his chest, damp with tears, murmuring, “Sorry!”

He digs his fingers into her hair and tilts her face up for a kiss. “Don’t be.”

Rolling her under him, he kisses her again, plundering until she’s arching and squirming against him and smiling that sweet, trusting smile he loves so much.

_You see? I’ll make you forget everything but me. Daddy just needs to kill off a few more monsters, is all._

Nona is going to be furious over this. Which is why it’s better if their marriage is a _fait accompli_ before the two of them meet.

Which means his poor little angel needs to be unhinged. Just a little more.

As a precaution.

The next morning, Rose comes for brunch, and although she’s more reserved than usual at first, it quickly dissipates once I get her in the penthouse and start low-key showing off.

Okay. I'm totally showing off. 

After a brief tour of the main floor, I get her settled on the living room sofa where she has the best vantage of the city. I’m about to show her the ring, which I’ve barely managed to keep out of sight by holding my hand behind my back or tucked in my pocket, when Ben comes in dressed to the nines for a board meeting.

He looks amazing in a sharp-cut navy suit, hair still damp from the shower and combed neatly so his large ears poke out. For some reason this look sends deep, swooping flutters into my belly and I find myself momentarily tongue-tied.

He greets Rose with a polite, “Mrs. Hux,” and flashes her a panty-melting grin. Rose, a married woman, blushes like a schoolgirl.

But she rouses herself with admirable aplomb and breaks into a beaming smile, holding out her fingers like the fucking Queen of England and giving him a haughty, “Solo.”

Ben doesn’t even break character as he dips his handsome, dark head and politely kisses the top of her dainty hand.

“You’re looking quite well. Pregnancy agrees with you.”

He winks and she giggles. Between her smirking and Ben’s effervescent charm, I shake my head. I’d be jealous of their flirting if I didn’t know for a fact Rose is madly in love with Hux. And it’s a huge relief to see the people closest to me getting along so well.

Still, I pout to Ben. “You really have to go?”

“I do. The Board is voting and I’m needed. Then I have a brief session with Dr. Holdo. But I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Awww.”

Even a few hours sounds like an eternity. I adore being around him when he’s in this playful, social mood. I don’t see it often enough. But he’s mentioned before how his therapy sessions with Holdo help, and I can’t begrudge him these. And I know his participation in board meetings is essential in maintaining…all of this.

“I wish I could stay, sweetheart, but duty calls. Give me something sweet to get me through the day?”

My heart flip-flops when I go to peck a kiss on his cheek, thinking to keep things rated PG in front of Rose.

But he isn’t shy at all about grabbing me by the waist and giving me the softest, lingering, bone-melting kiss.

By the time he pulls away, I’m ready to drag him by the power tie back to our bedroom for an hour or two, board vote and best friend-slash-guest be damned. But he simply shoots another wink at Rose and takes his leave as if he didn’t just kiss me senseless in front of her.

“Well. If I wasn’t pregnant already, I would be after that,” Rose quips.

Waiting until I’m sure he’s gone, I hold up my hand so Rose can see the engagement ring I’m wearing.

"How about this?"

As expected, Rose’s jaw drops, and she shrieks, “Holy fucking shit!”

And this dissolves any lingering tension between us as if our mild estrangement never happened. We’ve only just stopped screeching and giggling when Mitaka pops his head around the corner to announce Finn’s arrival.

And I sigh in genuine relief.

Everything is going to be okay.

Finally.

As promised, Ben returns after a few hours, just after Rose and Finn take off, both talking over each other as they vow to come back tonight dressed to party.

But Ben doesn’t even remove his overcoat when he fetches my passport from his desk.

“Get your coat on, sweetheart. We need to go get licensed to marry. And then we need to come back and get ready to host a party.”

And without question, I scurry to obey.

While we’re out, dozens of staff descend on the penthouse. We return to find them cooking and decorating and preparing the place for a small cocktail party, which I quickly learn means fifty or sixty of Ben’s close, personal associates and family, plus my own very small circle of friends.

For now, I’m taking my time doing my makeup and trying to ignore my nerves over meeting Ben’s parents.

It’s taking forever to get my eye shadow just right because I am trying extra hard to be glamourous. I have a magazine propped in front of me in the master bath and Ben is beside me, shaving his face with a straight-razor and throwing hungry looks in my direction until I’m a ball of anxiety with a healthy dose of horny mixed in.

It’s very distracting, especially when he comments off-handedly, “You’re fifty times prettier than Savara. I don’t know why you want to look like her.”

“Pfft. She’s a supermodel. Everyone wants to look like – wait! Do you _know_ her?”

He shrugs and keeps shaving. I glare at the photo. Now that I think about it, this might be one of the women he used to date. If my hazy recollections from Page Six are accurate.

I curse myself for not paying attention back then before realizing I never could have anticipated this - being jealous of my rich fiance's ex-supermodel girlfriend - in a million years.

Scowling, I flip through the magazine and find another model, a different picture. But Ben, wiping his face with a towel, merely grunts, “And _she_ is a royal bitch.”

I huff, sure he’s just fucking with me, especially after he delivers a mischievous smirk.

Dabbing my brush into my makeup palette, I ignore him and try to focus, which becomes infinitely easier after he slinks out of the room to finish getting dressed.

My concentration is shot to hell. I’ve barely had time to breathe let alone worry about all of the disasters piling up around me.

Canady. Poe. The police.

Crazily enough, my underwear and gun being found at a murder scene are the least of my worries.

Because looming in the background are my very real worries about Kylo.

And now a kidnapping threat, according to Ben.

Ben swears he’ll take care of it, and most of me is happy to let him. But I definitely need to get my head out of the clouds.

I think…I think my not going to work on a regular schedule is making me foggy. Forgetful. Apathetic, almost.

Mentally sluggish.

I can’t figure it out, but I really do need to try to tackle some of my problems.

Tomorrow.

I’ve applied a second coat of mascara before I remember once again Bazine left something in my coat pocket. I felt it there earlier when we went to get our marriage license, but then the clerk called our number and I promptly forgot everything but Ben pulling me up to the counter.

I scoot back from my little stool at the vanity and head into the bedroom.

Ben is threading a bow tie around his collar and gives me a once-over in the mirror.

“All done? You look very pretty.”

“No. I mean yes, but I just remembered. Um.” Dammit, I lied to him about Bazine and I have no explanation as to why. “The woman outside the precinct you asked about? When you picked me up?”

A shadow crosses his face. _Fuck_.

“She put something in my pocket and I forgot. In all the um. Excitement. I was just going to get it.”

“In your coat pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Stay here,” he orders, suddenly brusque. “I’ll fetch it. So we can both have a look.”

“Ben!”

“Stay. Here.”

He strides from the room and I don’t even think to disobey. He returns a minute later holding a folded paper, which he passes to me. It’s a take-out menu from Takodana Palace.

Weird. The same noodle joint from my old neighborhood in Hell’s Kitchen.

I can feel my forehead furrow in confusion. It’s just such a fantastic coincidence. My stomach churns.

Ben’s gaze has completely shuttered but he points out, “There’s a number on it.”

“Um.”

“Call it.”

He hands me my phone and I fight a twinge of annoyance.

I don't know why I'm so fucking nervous. I have nothing to hide. So, I dial the number. As the phone rings, Ben hits the speaker button, and my heart starts pounding. Why is he acting so…off?

“H-hello?” It’s Bazine.

Ben glares down at me and mouths the words “talk to her.”

“Bazine? Um, hi. It’s Rey. Rey Johnson? Um. I mean…” I trail off. Between her dead silence and my nerves, I’m not sure how to tell her I’m about to be married to a billionaire while she obviously got stuck with my stalker.

“Are you alone?” Bazine whispers. She sounds frightened.

Ben nods _yes_ and I swallow.

Instead of lying, I say, “You tried to talk to me at the police station, but it was so hectic. How did you know I’d be there?”

“Someone called me. Anonymously. They told me you were being brought in for questioning. Regarding a murder case. It was the only way I could think of to get to you. To warn you.”

I breathe again, but my pulse is definitely skipping. “You got a call? To warn me? You’re being followed, isn’t that what you said?”

“Rey, listen to me. I don’t know if this call is being monitored.”

My eyes flash guiltily up to Ben’s.

“Is this about Kylo?” I ask. Claws of dread sink into my belly.

There’s a brief pause. “Kylo?” I can hear her confusion. It’s obvious she’s never heard the name before.

Shit, maybe I misunderstood her. It was so chaotic with all of the reporters clamoring and shouting.

“No, Rey. _Listen to me._ I think I am being followed, but there's something you need to know.”

“Hang up the call, Rey,” Ben breathes, eyes glinting eerie black in the light.

But Bazine is rambling, “I don’t know anyone named Kylo, but you need to get away from _him_ , from Ben Solo. He’s dangerous, a monster, and you’re in trouble, real _trouble_ , do you hear me?”

Something toxic and sinister slithers over Ben’s face and visceral terror pulls at my middle.

He sets his finger to his mouth indicating I should be quiet, and he gently takes the phone, speaking too casually, “Hey Baz, Ben Solo here. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am to hear you say that.”

My heart is pounding so hard I don’t think I could muster a word to save my life.

But maybe it isn’t my life I should be worried about. The line on her end dies, and I glance up, horrified.

“You shouldn’t have kept that from me.” He sighs as if the weight of the world just shifted onto his broad shoulders.

With a deliberate quirk of his brow, he bends at the waist and drops my phone to the floor, then, before I can stop him, stands upright and crushes it under the heel of his shoe with a dreadful, final-sounding crunch.

Roguishly, he chucks me under the chin, but it does nothing to dispel the sinister vibe spilling into the room.

“I’ll have to punish you for lying. Later. Our guests will be here soon.”

Stunned, I spit, “What the fuck?”

Malice sizzles around him like a thick, malignant aura.

“Bazine is obviously trying to get close to you.”

“What do you mean?”

Danger. This is dangerous. Something is wrong.

His calculating appraisal holds my attention, utterly. “My best guess? She’s working with your stalker. Probably to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. Easier to do before we’re married, I’m guessing.”

“Kidnap me?” If my heart was pounding before, now it’s racing. This doesn't feel right. 

“Think about it. _He_ dug into your past, found someone willing to work with him. Someone who could be blackmailed or coerced. Maybe someone desperate…?”

I interrupt, “That doesn’t explain how she knows you.”

“She knows me?” He hums evasively and shakes his head. And as terrified as I am, I’m not letting up. Not this time.

“She seemed to know who you are. And you called her _Baz_. Just now. That's her nickname.”

Fuck, he’s slippery, but I can almost grasp _it_ , that dark thing hovering just out of reach. He replies with a smooth nonchalance that contradicts the direct menace rolling off him.

“A while back I hired her to work for me – security work – she was paid very well to test for holes in the team’s setup. Had to let her go when I found out she had an active drug addiction.”

He trails off but I stubbornly cling to the threads of understanding, sweeping my fingertips against an almost-translucent veil.

I can almost move it, almost see…something. 

Logically, it’s coincidental to the point of absurdity that Bazine, an old acquaintance of mine from high school would be living in New York and be called anonymously about me, and that she has evidently been to my old neighborhood, recently, and is being followed around by someone who thinks she’s me.

But even all of this doesn’t explain the additional statistical improbability of Ben knowing her, too.

Something’s wrong. Dead wrong.

“Our guests will be here in a few minutes. Finish getting ready. Then we’ll talk. After our party, okay?”

“No. I want to talk now.”

_I should have had Bazine killed off months ago._

Well, it’s too late at this point. The damage is already done and now he must deal with the consequences of poor planning.

He’s literally hours away from sweeping Rey out of the country and fucking Bazine Netal of all people is tripping alarms that shouldn’t be going off yet.

He can see the wheels turning in Rey's head. Turning far too fast. His baby girl is clever enough to figure things out _very_ quickly, especially after what just happened.

So, he does the one thing he knows will knock her off track and slaps her, a backhand strike hard enough to shock the breath out of her. The back of his hand stings and he knows her face must hurt like hell.

“What the _fuck_?” she roars, eyes filling with instant tears.

He cocks his head and lifts his hand again, making her back up a step. He considers giving her another smack for emphasis but she’s already bellowing, “The fuck is wrong with you? I don’t need to be treated like this!”

“Treated like what?”

She blinks and shakes her head, stunned. Fascinating. Not a cowardly bone in her body.

_Why do you have to make everything so difficult, sweetie?_

“You just fucking _hit_ me, asshole. Why? Why would you do that?”

She sniffs and glowers at him.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he considers. It’s a fair question. He can't give her even close to a full answer, so he says, “I need you to behave yourself. To do what I need you to do. Pull yourself together and be a good hostess. Put on a show.”

“Why?” Fuck. She’s still far too spirited and while he does love it, he can’t have her misbehaving in front of their company and it's way too late to cancel the party.

He drops his voice into a low growl. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“You’re lying. Lying about Bazine. And something else. Were you lying about the…the kidnapping thing?”

Gravely, he shakes his head. He’s not lying about it, but she’s getting far too close there, too.

“No. I'm not lying. And I guarantee whoever is coming for you isn’t going to be nearly as forgiving as I just was.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her forearm.

“Forgiving?”

“Clean yourself up,” he snaps. “Come downstairs when you’re ready. And remember what I said. I need you to behave yourself. I’m serious.”

On a whim, he bends and lifts her hand and slides the engagement ring off her finger before she thinks to run outside and hurl it over the balcony.

“You can have this back when you get downstairs.”

“I don’t fucking want it. I'm out of here.” Pure rebellion flashes in her eyes and he presses his lips between his teeth to keep an ugly snarl from his face.

_Oh, I don’t fucking think so._

“You couldn’t get past the elevator, sweetheart. Not with my security team fencing you in,” he bites.

She tries to step past him and he wrenches her arm and hurls her back into the room a few steps.

“I’ll tell everyone. You’re keeping me here against my will.”

“You can try. I can promise you won’t like what happens if you do.”

“Fuck you.” She’s not backing down, goddammit. “I’ll call the police.”

“Go ahead. There's your phone." He nods at the smashed phone on the floor. "Tell me how quick they come running after you had two of their own stripped of their retirements and dismissed. Just this morning, in fact.”

He had to call the Mayor for that, and as bittersweet as it was to cash in his only favor with Lando, he decides it’s worth it now to see the look on her face as she begins to comprehend the extent of his reach.

_…I need you just a bit more unhinged, sweetheart…can't have you sniffing around the wrong sorts of questions and figuring out who I am._

“I'll tell everyone you’re a liar.”

“Ha!” His laugh echoes through the room sharper than the slap. “You can try. Who would anyone believe, I wonder? Me? Or a little nobody from nowhere with a record of mental instability and a volatile… _temperament_.”

Her mouth drops open and she huffs in fury, so he goes on.

“I’m not the one with a documented history of drug use, alcohol abuse. It’s in the police reports. Your behavior at Hux’s wedding. And again, at the Christmas party just recently…falling down drunk by the look of it."

Her mouth drops open in shock, and he continues, "Then, just a week later, all that cocaine and molly you did on New Year’s Eve? Vos showed me the reports. They spoke to Phasma. They spoke to a lot of people. Did you know the police even interviewed your old neighbors? A…Bob Teedo, I believe, told them all about how you’re prone to violent outbursts.”

She backs up another step and he pushes harder.

“…and let’s not forget your excessive paranoia. Finn Storm’s statement confirms it. It's why he gave you that gun, isn't it? And that's just the start. You’ve been this way since you were a small girl. Delusional. Troubled. Driven to violence even, if that story about your old math teacher is true.”

“You fucking bastard. What are you doing?”

But he keeps talking, sending her into a spiral of self-doubt. Right where he wants her.

“Not to mention my own accounts. You get confused sometimes, don't you? See things that aren't really there? It's all documented in my recent therapy sessions, of course.”

“You talked about me in therapy?”

“Of course,” he croons, almost kind. “And I've been in touch with your friends. We all care about you very much.”

“You fucking stay away from my friends!” she snarls, glaring at him with such ferocity, he pauses. He’d be impressed with her strength if it weren’t such a goddamned pain in his ass. Instead, he threatens, “Careful, Rey, baby. Little girls who can’t play nice don’t get to have friends.”

“You can’t control everything. You can’t run my whole life.”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course, I can. That’s just the tip of the iceberg, my talking to your friends. Don’t fuck with me. Or people are going to get hurt.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I already have.”

This claps her lips shut faster than anything. He prowls closer, herding her to the seating area by the window where there's a long, low sofa with a narrow table behind it. On the table are a floral arrangement and decanter of whiskey with a few glasses on a tray.

Only when he’s sure she won’t try to bolt for the door does he splash a bit of whiskey into a tumbler.

“By all means. Try to run. Like I said. You won’t get past the front door. My head of security is _very_ well compensated. He's ex-Mossad and will shoot on command, without hesitation. Anytime, anyone. Even your best friends.”

Allowing a moment for this tidbit to sink in with the proper gravitas, he takes a slow sip, baring his teeth at the smooth burn of the alcohol while he watches her turn pale as a ghost.

“You think I’m the worst person in your life right now. I can respect that. But I’m the devil you know. And you don’t want to meet the other ones.”

“You _are_ the worst person.” Her glance falls to her crushed phone and she asks, “What did you mean ‘I already have’? When you said people are going to get hurt?”

“I was talking about the things I’ve done,” he tells her, injecting some patience into his tone, deciding honesty is the best policy in this relationship. “Since we got together.”

“What things?”

“Blackmail. Murder. Extortion.” After a long, calculating pause. “Rape.”

She shivers visibly at this last, the way he rolls his tongue around the single, violent syllable. Like it’s a particularly tasty bite he’s savoring.

“Since we got together? Since Christmas? You’ve…been with other people?”

He tosses back the rest of his whiskey and looks at her as if she’s insane.

“Just you.”

“But…anything between us was always under my consent.”

Here he laughs, a low, rolling chuckle that makes her eyes flash with alarm. It's so deliciously lovely, the look on her face, a hot stone sinks into the pit of his gut. He nods agreeably and takes a final sip, only hissing when he finds nothing but a few drops to greet his tongue.

“So _you_ think.”

“So I _know_.”

This. This ought to send her veering off into oblivion. So she stays the fuck away from other things, more dangerous things.

He shakes his head so she can see it. Clearly. Beyond the naked lust and unending ruthlessness to own and dominate everything in his path.

The mask is slipping off, and fuck it. They’ll fly to Italy tonight, right after their party. Mitaka can ready the jet and handle the details. They can be married when they land. He’ll have his people arrange it. She’s as good as cornered. He’ll just need to wield his leverage a bit harder. Get through a few hours of socializing.

She can take it.

She’ll behave herself.

_I’ll make fucking sure of it, baby. In the meantime…let's see how you handle me without this endless fucking façade._

I watch him splash a bit more whiskey into his glass and I hold my tongue for once. Just when the silence has stretched too tautly and I fear it will snap and break, he bites out, “You don’t know a goddamned thing.”

He drinks, a long swallow this time, and slips me an evaluating look from head to toe. “I wasn’t talking about the times I fucked you when you were awake.” His next sip moistens his plush lips, making them shine red and wet in the firelight. 

"What?"

“You silly, foolish little girl. I was referring to all those… _other_ times.”

“Other times?” Dawning horror piles coal onto the hot burn of betrayal, and I can’t fucking believe what he’s saying, what he’s _said_ , on top of the avalanche of other things, as that urbane, charming mask drops from his face to reveal the monster underneath.

Deliberately, methodically, he sets his glass on the table and circles behind me, moving with the predatory grace of a jaguar.

“I’m talking about all those other times I raped you.” He stands behind me and I want to run, but I can’t. This is a creature who will not be threatened or cajoled or guilted into backing down.

I want to run, but I really, really don’t want to know what happens if he catches me.

“Of course, I had to drug you before I did it,” he says pragmatically. As if his explanation makes perfect sense. “All it took was a little bit of…night-night juice.”

I’m so shaken, I don’t even slap his hand away when he reaches for my arm and spins me, dragging me close. Until we're nose to nose. He smirks as if he’s made an amusing joke. “A necessary precaution, I’m afraid.”

“Why? Why a precaution?”

“You already know, deep down. Who I am.”

My heart is thundering in my ears. I can’t answer. I can’t move. I can't think straight.

“You bastard,” I spit, my last defense against the fathomless, undeniable truth in his gaze, furious at the shiver in my voice. “Whatever you’re saying, hinting at? I know it’s a lie. Everything you’ve ever told me has been lies. You’re sick. I’m leaving.”

I yank my arm from his grip. He ducks his chin and stares at the tip of his shoe, and I think this might be my cue to leave.

_Run. Get the fuck out._

Just as I work up the nerve to take a step, his hand clamps down on my arm hard enough to bruise.

“The only way you get out of this is in a fucking body bag.”

Waves of hot and cold rush through me and every hair on my body stands on end. 

I try one last bluff, “You won’t get away with it, keeping me here. I’ll–”

“You’ll what? Go on, I’m curious now.”

I can’t think of what I might do. Where will I go? Who would even help me, if I somehow manage to get past his squad of mercenaries?

I’m fucking cornered.

“You fight me now and I’ll make it hurt. Try to run? I’ll make bad things happen. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

The blood in my veins freezes to ice when he draws his finger down my spine before hooking it under the back of my dress and sweeping lightly back and forth. It would be teasingly seductive if it weren’t so fucking terrifying.

“You look like you need something to calm your nerves before our party, baby.”

He takes a little pill bottle from his pocket and shakes one into his open palm.

“Swallow this.”

I shake my head _no_ and hot, frustrated tears burn my eyes. In a blur of motion, he sweeps the long-stemmed roses in their cut-crystal vase from the table, a violent act, incongruent with the languid caress of his breath on the side of my neck.

“God, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. Last chance, baby. Say _ahhh_.” Like a trained dog, I open my mouth. “Swallow it.”

I do.

"What was it?" My voice is quivering. I try to breathe.

“Just a sedative. Nothing to knock you out. Although. Maybe I ought to try it when you’re awake next time.” His eyes glint, catching mine in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the whole of New York winking and twinkling in the background. “I should see if I like it better with you looking me in the eye while I take whatever I want.”

“You really…did that?”

“Raped you? Yes. A few times. You make a very pretty doll when your little eyes roll back in your head while I’m doing it, too. Raping you.”

“Stop saying that.”

“What, _raping you_? Why?”

“It’s a lie.”

He circles around again and from behind me, he drops his chin to rest on my shoulder, giving me a solemn look in the window's reflection.

“Are you afraid it isn’t true? Or are you afraid it is and you like it?”

“ _Like_ it? Don’t be vile!”

“Maybe it’s the only way you feel _really_ wanted, to really know, deep down, that someone loves you. The only way to be sure in that twisted little head of yours.”

“I am _not_ the twisted one here!”

All of a sudden, I can hardly see straight I’m so furious.

I think it catches us both by surprise when I wrench away and give him a ringing slap, forceful enough to jerk his head to the side. In that startling moment, our eyes meet, and I see it, fully.

Darkness. An endless pit of it. I can't look away.

In a single motion, he wraps my hair in his fist and yanks me in front of him, marching me to the bed.

“You see? It only feels good when it hurts, doesn’t it? Yes, it does.”

The instant his grip loosens, I throw my head back and catch him off guard for the second time in under a minute. The back of my skull throbs, but he’s already flinging me at the bed and panting. Vaguely horrified, I turn and watch his tongue sweep out to touch the bloody cut on his lip before he sucks it into his mouth.

A very familiar look is on his face. The one from the night I tossed wine on him. And again, that first night when we–

There’s so much adrenaline rushing through me, I scramble up, but he swipes at me again, almost lazily, like a big cat swatting at a butterfly, and the blow is enough to knock me back onto the bed, breathing hard.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Company’s going to be here any minute. You said.”

It’s a useless, filler sort of comment. A pointless, last-ditch effort to get him to back the fuck off. So I can catch my breath and try to think my way out of this. 

Only, I don't think I can. 

“Oh,” he checks his watch before he bends close, shackling my wrists in an iron grasp, “I think we can make time for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said on Twitter this one was gonna be DARK, and I promise more darkness will come! I had to stop it somewhere, as this chapter was already clocking in at well over 7k words, and honestly, I think I need to let ya'll take a breath so your pretty little heads don't explode.
> 
> There was a TON of info here, and more is coming soon. Maybe you want to gobble it up, but I want you digesting it, soaking it in. Meanwhile, I'm going to go pour myself a large whiskey and do my best not to worry about continuity issues, plot holes, grammar, editing, POV shifts, and all the rest of it.
> 
> Today has been a day for reflection and maybe even celebration for me. One year ago, I posted the final chapter of my darkest (at the time) fic, Little Animals, and also the first chapter of another dark story, House of The Rising Sun, which is on hiatus until Creep and Body of Work are done, hopefully in December.
> 
> We'll see. I know I tend to type promises my fingers can't always keep.
> 
> As I post this chapter of Creep, I know it puts me at over one million words on this site, an accomplishment for which I am thankful and also slightly bewildered. Because I know it means I have another million or so before finishing my WIPs.
> 
> Wherever you are in the world, please remember you are loved and valued and precious.
> 
> Maybe I'm feeling a bit maudlin, too, since our state governor just declared us in lockdown again. So. As I look at spending the holidays alone, I would remind everyone to wear your masks, wash your hands, and, if possible, hug your loved ones as often as you are able to. Cherish your friends. Check in on your people. 
> 
> Because at the end of the day, we will never regret loving each other.
> 
> Now. Enough sentimental pap. Who's excited about the next chapter? I think we all know what's coming.
> 
> ..........xoxoxo.............


	23. desecrate

# desecrate

**About sixteen years ago -**

_Smack._

_Smack!_

_Splat._

“Dumb girl can’t even talk. What are you, stupid? Or just an ugly crybaby?”

_I’m not ugly. Not stupid, either._

_Not supposed to talk._

Except that mean boy from my new house took my doll and now he’s holding her by the leg and dunking her head into a mud puddle and it’s the only thing…the only thing I have left to remember.

_Don’t ever say. To anyone. You ever tell…and I’ll come and find you…_

_I’ll bite off your fingers one by one if you ever tell._

_Not one sound._

Only…only I have to make that mean boy stop hurting my dolly.

He’s my age, but handsome and sure of himself and taller. Not scrawny like me.

“Stop it!” I whisper, too quiet for him to hear.

My voice comes out all scratchy and weird because I haven’t talked for a long time. Not since–

“Stop!”

This time he hears me loud and clear. Astonished, the boy stops, dropping dolly in the puddle and staring as if I have horns on my head.

“You talked!” His dark brown eyes are wide, full of surprise.

But I’m already barreling into him, fists flying, dolly forgotten for once as I remember the most important thing.

_I don’t need to talk. Only fight._

* * *

She’s glaring at him fit to kill and Ben has no doubt she’d happily blow his brains out all over the duvet if she had a gun in her hand.

Good thing she doesn’t.

_Baby had a long day and no nap. Of course, you’re having tantrums now. I should have expected this._

He pins her legs by the simple expedient of kneeling on the skirt of her dress until the fabric traps her to the bed.

She lunges and almost bangs her forehead into his face again, but he holds himself just out of range. If he’s patient, the sedative she swallowed will take effect and she’ll settle down.

Eventually.

_In the meantime, here’s the part where I play on every insecurity you’ve ever had. And there’s so much scope for playing, isn’t there?_

A tear streaks down her cheek, and he watches, riveted.

“All those times you said you wanted to get fucked like a whore…all the filthy things you let me do to you…that didn’t happen by accident,” he mocks. “You begged me for it. Cried for it. Loved every minute of it.”

“I wasn’t awake for half of it, by the sound of things,” she flings back, all wrath and fire. “What you’ve been doing…it’s sick. You’re demented. I’m telling everyone, so they know what a monster you are.”

“By all means,” he mutters, dropping his voice to his most lethal tones, “tell your friends what a horrible nightmare you’ve been trapped in these past weeks.”

“My friends will believe me!” she cries, affronted.

“Will they? Or will they be too relieved to look past the surface?”

“Relieved?”

“You think they don’t know? When they look at you? All alone? Poor little Rey. On the outside looking in for so long. How uncomfortable things have been for them, I wonder? Moving on with their lives while they leave you behind…how awkward.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that huge sigh of relief they’re all collectively breathing. Thinking they can finally let all your unpleasant jealousy be put to rest.”

“Jealousy?” This infuriates her like nothing else. He can hear it in her voice, see it all over her face.

_Ah, hit a sore spot, have I?_

“It’s so plain to see to anyone who’s looking. How envious you’ve been. Even on the day of your best friend’s wedding, I could practically fucking taste it. And I was a stranger. But I could see it. How bitterly lonely you were.”

“I was happy for Rose. I _am_ happy for her.”

“No.” He shakes his head, confident he’s right. “You think you’re a good person so long as you keep saying you are. But you’re just like me. Rotten to the core. Selfish. Petty. Materialistic. The only difference between us is I have more money and power than I could spend in ten lifetimes and you…you have nothing.”

“I have plenty!”

His eyes flick over her expression, drinking in every little drop of agony in that last heated lie.

“No, you don’t. Not unless you take what you want.”

Her chin wobbles and she argues, “The world doesn’t work that way. You can’t just help yourself to…to…”

“The world works _exactly_ that way. For people like me. Like us.”

She’s staring at him, bewilderment sparking in her pretty hazel eyes.

“You act like I don’t know you. But I do. I’m the only one who knows…”

_I know who your parents are._

He almost says it aloud before he reminds himself how dangerous this game is. While it’s all well and good to stop hiding his true nature from her, revealing the full, complex extent of his machinations before he’s got her stashed somewhere safe – preferably chained to the bed on his yacht in a remote, semi-tropical location – isn’t at all the prudent thing to do.

He’ll need to alter his course.

“Did I hurt you? Is that it?” he whispers, kissing the sensitive skin just under her ear and pulling back before she has the time or foresight to take a chunk out of him with her sharp little teeth.

“No, but–”

“Did I take anything you wouldn’t have given me willingly?” He already knows the answer.

“…n-no.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem?”

She struggles against his hold but weaker this time.

_You just need to wear yourself out, don't you, baby girl?_

“I…you said you did blackmail and…extortion…and _murder_ …”

“Stop getting so worked up when I know for a fact you don’t care all that much.”

Outrage gleams in her eyes and he settles his full weight on her, threading his fingers through her hair to lock her head in place before licking that tender spot under her jaw. After a few lingering kisses there, she calms, although there’s still too much tension in her arms.

If he lets her loose just yet she’ll clobber him. So, he croons, “You’re exactly like me. How can you not see it?”

“No.”

 _I’m putting a stop to this stubborn streak the instant we’re married,_ he decides. _If I have to beat it out of you, don’t think I won’t._

But again, he holds his tongue and commands instead, “Tell me why you asked for a car that night.”

“I–” She gives him a half-hearted shrug and stares too hard at the button on his collar. “I don’t know.”

“You’re happy to take the designer clothes and the jewelry and a thirty million dollar Bugatti for a bit of sodomy. So long as you don’t have to think too hard about the fact you’re whoring yourself for it.”

“I’m not a whore, you fucking asshole.”

“Yes, you are,” he purrs. “You said you were. Over and over. You’re _my_ whore. My toy. What else do you think is happening here?”

“I thought…It’s just the way you’re saying everything, twisting it around. About my friends. And my past. It makes me sound like a–”

“A monster?”

She nods.

“Then why did you really call me? On Christmas?”

She pauses, and he reads the thoughts crossing her face, reminding her, “You hardly put up a fight when I said you could move on in. When you quit your job. When you decided to go on some wild, drugged-out bender. I’m fine with being used for my money, but I expect to get my money’s worth out of you.”

“Why did you say all of that…about…my past?”

“Did I lie? About any of it?”

“No, but…”

“But what? Tell me why you agreed to marry me. Is it because you’re madly in love with me? Or is it because I promised to take care of you? Make all of your problems go away? Give you anything you want?”

Guilt flashes in her eyes. _Gotcha_.

As for now, he can almost smell the fear and adrenaline pumping through the air and it’s enough to make his head spin.

“But…why did you slap me?” she whimpers. Tears glint on her eyelashes and he’s almost too distracted to answer.

“Why did you say you’d be my fucktoy if you didn’t expect to be treated like one?” he counters. “Because you fucking love it. And so do I.” He breathes a hot kiss on her neck.

She’s practically vibrating at his touch, humming like a luxury sportscar or a well-trained thoroughbred. Just waiting for him to point her in the right direction and set her loose.

“You _like_ hitting me? And…everything else?”

“I like how sick and twisted you are. How we were made for each other. You just don’t see it, yet. You will.”

Her pupils are growing dilated from the sedative.

One-handed, he wrenches her wrists lower to pin her hair to the bed, too. He doesn’t relish the idea of her skull cracking against his again anytime soon, but he needs his other hand free for this next part.

No bruises. No marks. Nothing to draw attention.

Petulantly, she insists, “I’m not marrying you.”

_Oh, yes, you fucking are._

Changing tactics, he murmurs, “You’re not thinking this through all the way, sweetheart.”

He shifts his weight, grinding into her parted thighs so she can feel him through their clothes.

“You’ll be my wife,” he tells her coaxingly. “Think about what my name alone can get you. What it can get for your friends.”

This gives her pause, like he knew it would.

Maybe Bazine rather hurried things along with that phone call, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to risk Rey and Baz having a conversation without him knowing about it. Especially if there is a chance Snoke was listening in.

But at the end of the day, he loves her. She’s as calculating and greedy as he is and he’s sick of pretending otherwise.

“And what do you get out of it?” she sulks.

“Besides the endless amusement of your delightful company? Access to your lovely charms. Whenever I please.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…rape me again?”

He chuckles. God, she’s a warped little thing. He trails a few light kisses over her jaw and neck before swirling his tongue around the shell of her ear.

“Is that what you want?”

She tries to shake her head _no_ , but he merely cups a gentle hand around her throat and kisses the side of her neck. Soon she’s breathing hard and when she moans in such gorgeous surrender a rush of arousal sinks low in his gut and burns, deep at the base of his spine.

_You’re just begging for someone to tame you, aren’t you baby?_

_Fuck it._

Glancing at the nightstand, he hurriedly unfastens his pants and untucks his shirt with one hand.

_We’ve got time._

It’s hard to think coherently when he’s got his hand up her skirt and she’s writhing so prettily against his kisses, barely resisting at all as he pushes the lace of her underwear aside and slips a finger over her warm, slick flesh.

“Such a friendly welcome for someone who says she doesn’t want it…” he teases, shifting for a better angle and not surprised at all when she lifts to meet his touch.

“Fuck you,” she gasps.

“It’s all fun and games until someone calls your bluff, isn’t it, sweetie?”

Too late, she tries to struggle again, but he’s already got her skirt wrenched up past her thighs, pumping his cock in his fist with a few harsh strokes before lining himself up and pushing inside on one hard thrust.

She gasps and he tightens his grip on her wrists so she doesn’t try to slap him again.

“God, you’re fucking depraved,” he mutters. “You don’t even _know_ what you want. But I do. Oh, yes. And now I’m going to give it to you. So, you understand, way down deep at the rotten core of your twisted little heart.”

Her eyes flash murder but he doesn’t stop. The wet, sucking sounds of him moving between her legs are all the confirmation he needs.

“You want it so fucking bad.” He gives her a heavy pump of his hips, baring his teeth against the exquisite, clutching heat wrapped around him. “Getting my dick so fucking wet.”

She's twisting her pelvis, but her movements only drive him insane, the way her body pulls at his. Like she never wants him to leave.

“Get off me,” she snarls.

“Stop lying to yourself.”

In warning, he tugs on her hair and bites her shoulder, but softly, a tiny mark that will fade.

His teeth scrape over her skin and a moan escapes his throat before he can even think to stop it. And she answers with her own, a helpless, lost sound. Something a trapped animal might make only more desperate, huskier.

Darker.

He cups his free hand around her face, careful not to make a bruise, even as he plows in harder until she’s squealing against his hand with every shocking blow.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite. We’re the _same_.”

Pulling out, he flips her over like a rag doll and yanks her skirt over her hips. She makes it all too easy when she reaches back to throw him off and he snags her arms, pinning them behind her and driving his knee into the small of her back.

“Stop it!” she screeches into the mattress.

“Why? What are you gonna fucking do if I don’t?”

She can’t move, but she’s fighting the inevitable, so he shifts, kneeling on her legs so she can’t kick him away.

Amused, he smiles at how her squirming only calls attention to her adorable rear end, half-covered in lace, tempting him. She knows what she’s doing, trying to make him crazy. So, he licks the flat of his palm and delivers a ringing swat to her backside.

_Oooh. That’s going to leave a mark._

She chokes and seizes up. Her skin blushes an instant, angry pink and he does the other side before she catches her breath and starts screaming in earnest.

“I think Daddy’s little girl should have a bit less spice and a bit more sugar.”

He pulls her hair and when her hips arch up, he drags her underwear out of the way and slams home, not giving a shit who hears when he starts pounding hard enough to jar her teeth together.

It doesn’t take more than a dozen rough strokes before he’s spurting all over the backs of her thighs and only at the last second, when he catches a rebellious glimmer in her eye, does he flip her over again and cup a fist over her mouth.

The faintest sounds of voices begin to trickle up the stairs. Guests are arriving.

“You can go on down and try to convince everyone I just raped you. Or you can grow the fuck up and start acting like my fiancée and start taking what you want, too.”

Surprising her, he lets go and lifts away, grinning at the spitting fury written so plainly on her face. She’s definitely starting to look a little wild and slightly deranged as she struggles to sit up.

“What makes you think I’m going to behave?”

“Because you don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

“I’m not scared of your threats.”

“Rey. Don’t be boring. Of course you are.”

Her gown is twisted and she throws a quick glance at the door. But she stays put.

Not quite brave enough to run away. Good.

“Fu – I’m not scared.”

“Fine. Just remember if you can’t be good for me tonight, there’s no force on this earth powerful enough to stop me from delivering your punishment.”

She flounces off the bed in a huff.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“I was…”

“Going to meet my mother with cum still dripping down your thighs? Clean yourself up first, baby whore.”

She doesn’t even blink at the insult, which means that sedative kicked in. He’ll need to monitor how much alcohol she drinks tonight.

She’s already making her way to the bathroom and since she can’t see the stern glare he’s giving her, he calls out, “I’m not your old math teacher or your landlord or your pig of a boss who you can push around and charm into doing whatever you want.”

“No, because my boss is _dead_! Thanks for the sympathy, by the way,” she hollers from the bathroom.

“And how many tears did you shed over it?” he yells back, tucking in his shirt and tying his bowtie. A grin slides onto his face.

She storms out a minute later. All things considered, she only looks a little flustered. Her cheeks are flushed and her pupils are dangerously wide, but to any outside eye, she looks exactly how he wants her to look.

Sitting on the bed while she stands in front of him, he sighs and tugs her dress into place. Tears fill her eyes and he stands up.

“You can cry. Tears aren’t going to work. You can try begging. But you don’t need to speak. I already know I’m in there.” He taps a long finger against her temple. “I know everything I’ve said is sinking in. It is, isn’t it?”

“You said _murder_. I’ll tell everyone what you did,” she blusters, drawing a full laugh out of him.

Oh, he’s got her rattled.

Perfect.

“Good luck finding a body,” he retorts, unafraid. “And I’m not the one whose fingerprints are all over a known murder weapon, princess.”

While she bends to slip on her shoes, he dabs at the cut on his lip with a square of linen and examines his reflection in the mirror. He looks a bit rumpled, but it’s a smallish party and he doesn’t really give a shit. Rey is still glaring daggers at him but he decides it’s safe enough to give her a few minutes on her own and let her collect herself.

There’s nothing better than poking at her frustrated little temper.

_Time for the coup de grâce, I think._

From his jacket pocket, he pulls a familiar gold necklace with red stones.

The sight of it makes her suck in her breath and back a full step away.

“What happened to the other one?”

“What other one?”

“The emeralds.”

“My mother’s emeralds? Fucktoys don’t get to wear family heirlooms, baby girl. You can have those once we’re married. Besides. I thought you liked this one. To match your new Bugatti?”

He drapes the garnets around her neck and tenderly sweeps her hair from under the delicate gold chain.

It’s always easier to give a little carrot before she gets the stick.

_Tonight. We're leaving the second our last guest is out the door._

“What about my charity for foster kids?” she hurls back, unfiltered belligerence tinting her voice. “You said you were going to let Finn run it.”

“Well. You said you were going to marry me. Are you?”

“I…”

The way he’s watching me, it’s infuriating.

His eyes are snapping with humor and arrogance and he’s fucking with me and not even bothering to try to hide it.

I wonder how much of his so-called confession of blackmail and extortion and murder is true. I wonder if he isn’t trying to rouse my temper for his own sick amusement.

My butt stings and I’m riotously unsatisfied by whatever just happened on his bed.

It hurt, but not as much as it’s hurt before. In fact, I think I’m more pissed off I didn’t get to come than I am over the questionable consent, under the circumstances.

I’m trying to work up more outrage over what he just did, over what he just admitted to, but his words are tumbling through my head making far too much sense.

_…we’re the same…_

He snatches up my hand and tugs me close and grins.

He’s still the same rich, cocky, handsome bastard, only…I feel like I’m seeing the real him for the first time.

Ruthless, conceited, and utterly unconcerned with anyone’s opinion but his own.

Do I really want to marry him?

Especially when I know for a fact he’s fucking with me about the necklace? Before I can decide, he bends close and breathes on my neck – just breathes – and wild, traitorous flutters tumble into my belly, and then, _fuck_ , he kisses me, hot and open-mouthed and devouring.

I can’t stop my face and chest from flooding with heat, my breath catching with every decadent swipe of his tongue. Instead of letting up, he bends me over his arm and ravishes me until my toes curl and my fists loosen to knead at his arms.

I can’t catch my breath, can’t think straight.

_…not unless you take what you want…_

I could catch him in the groin with my knee and make a run for it. I could bite him, hurt him.

But why would I when what he’s doing feels so dangerously good? I drape my arms around his shoulders and he pulls me closer.

He bumps his hips into mine, forcing me to bend over his arm and his caress turns painful. But only just.

Our breathing aligns to each other’s until we’re matched, until the rise and fall of his chest brushes the luxurious fabric of his dress shirt against my décolletage and my nipples harden under the satiny fabric of my cocktail dress. Until a horrible, wonderful ache builds between my legs and demands – _insists_ – on his attention.

His hand is on my throat again and he’s overwhelming me with hot, dark kisses and I can’t breathe.

Light as a feather, the palm not holding me by the throat skates over my hips and around, sliding up and down, slow and sure, capturing a breast and plucking at the tip with the most delicate, ardent of touches. I moan again, ragged, rough.

Swooping flutters of need pulse through me until my cunt aches and clenches.

I try to tell myself he’s only soft and gentle for now. I try to convince myself I’m tensing for a fight, waiting for the violence to start, heart pounding, thoughts racing. That the only reason I don’t try to fight him off is that I know for a fact he can tear me to pieces.

This is what I tell myself as his words flit through my head and his soft lips and wicked tongue do the most enchanting things to shred my resistance.

I can’t argue because if I open my mouth, I’m going to beg him to keep going.

He’s done something to me, ruined me forever.

His hand slides down and squeezes my still-sore butt, just rough enough to remind me I’m trapped, caught. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against my hair, echoing my own traitorous thoughts. “Now are you going to be a good girl and come downstairs for your party? Do you need a minute?”

“Um. Just a minute. If that’s okay?” I peek up at him through my eyelashes and I sense a vast tension in him releasing itself. He’s still a monster and I’m furious with him for what he did. But–

“Take all the time you want.”

I _will_ take what I want.

Maybe it makes me a whore, as he said. But he said a lot of other things, too.

And he’s right.

Because I’m not really sad about Canady being dead, I’m just reacting because that’s the polite thing to do.

What if I didn’t have to live by those rules? What kind of person would I be if I could make my own? Like him?

What could I do if I had access to the same resources and power and wealth he has?

I could help a lot of people. Right a lot of wrongs.

And I could live a life of unimaginable privilege. Solve a lot of problems.

Like how I have a stalker who apparently wants to kidnap me, and how I’m linked to a murder and my only alibi could destroy me with a snap of his long, very talented fingers.

 _Unless you’re married_ , a little voice whispers. A person can’t be compelled to testify against a spouse in court.

And Ben isn’t even asking me to sign a prenup.

Maybe he thinks I’m a monster, but I disagree.

The truth is, I’ve never felt so alive in my whole life.

The truth is, I haven’t felt lonely since the day he rescued me from Hell’s Kitchen.

I can hear more voices downstairs, and the faintest hint of the piano in the living room. Ben must’ve hired someone to play for the party.

Finn and Poe and Rose are probably already here.

I sniff.

As shaken as I am, I’m thinking.

His eyes are glittering obsidian now, full of fathomless darkness that underscores the détente between us. He’s looking at me the way the devil might look at a girl right before he snatches her soul. Like he can see _everything_ , understand me beyond what I can explain in words. How I’ve always secretly felt bitter. Because I wasn’t meant to live my life as a nobody.

Like I was meant for greater things.

Like he understands because he can read my mind.

And that's okay.

“I’ll marry you.”

Something dark and victorious moves in his eyes and I jump all the way in.

“…I called you that day because I knew you wanted me. And I was, um. I was going to get what I could out of you. And use you. Because I…I think I was tired of living that way.”

“Tired of being poor?”

“Yes. And tired of being…irrelevant. And…tired of nobody seeing me. For who I really am.”

“That’s in the past. Let it die.”

“Okay.”

_Not a damn chance, Daddy. The past is the first thing I’m digging up. Just as soon as we tie the knot._

I need to know what happened to me. That night. Why my parents abandoned me in Niima.

I need to find out who Kylo is, and why he’s turned up now all of a sudden.

Overhead, the raucous noise of a chopper landing on the rooftop makes us both glance up to the coffered ceiling.

“That’ll be the Mayor,” Ben informs me, tweaking my nose.

He kisses me again, soft and sweet, and I want to cling to him, let him plunder again. But he pulls away and leaves me, closing the door with a soft click.

I hurry back to the bathroom to double-check my makeup.

It’s beautiful here, this life of extravagance and excess. In many ways more brutal than I’d imagined. I’m very high up and there’s no cushion if I fall.

But I’m still gonna take him for everything he’s got. It’s a fair trade, more than fair. What he just did? Use me like that? Fuck with my head?

I can live with it if it means getting some answers. I just need to wait.

And I know all about waiting.

He can play his sick games with the necklace and the lies and the threats. Let him think he’s in charge. Let him believe he’s the one calling the shots.

I can be charming. Play his game. Let him think he owns me.

I can do this.

Besides.

If he thinks I can’t slip past his guards whenever I damn well please, he can fuck right off.

And he was wrong about one thing. 

I don't have nothing.

I have myself.


	24. engage

# engage

His split lip throbs from all the kissing, and he adds this to the growing list of offenses for which she will need to be chastised.

But.

While it’s been a long eight months, give or take, since he decided to marry her, his investment in time and energy is already paying off with dividends.

She’s as good as caught in his web.

And now that he has Rey almost literally locked down, what with the accessory to murder allegations, not to mention her own insatiable sexual curiosity and the taste for finer living he’s been cultivating, Ben is sure the wedding will proceed as scheduled. Immediately.

_Just a few more loose ends, sweetheart. Then we can get on with our lives._

Rey has enough reasons to stay with him, both practical and emotional, and he’s confident she won’t go haring off on some idiotic mission of her own, especially if she knows a prospective kidnapper is out there and she thinks it's Kylo.

He’ll need to be mentally prepared for her eventual discovery, however, and he should set things into motion to mitigate this almost certain contingency. In the meantime, he’s already put most of his cards on the table, if not fully, then at least laid enough of them down so when she figures out who he is she’ll have only herself to blame for letting him carry on with the deception for so long.

And as he thinks about the contingencies he's made, he realizes he has yet to hear from Fett.

Noise from the party drifts to his ears and he should be downstairs by now, but his favorite mantra _there’s no time like the present_ , comes to mind, so he takes out his phone and slips into a guest room.

Making a call, he paces irritably until a familiar voice picks up.

_“Fett.”_

“You know I don’t like waiting.”

He ordered Unkar Plutt’s death days ago and Fett hasn't yet confirmed he's finished the job. Ben would berate the man and fire him on the spot if he wasn’t the best of the best and finding a new mercenary would be an enormous headache.

“Sir, I was just going to call you.” Fett sounds genuine and Ben knows the man doesn’t lie.

“And? It’s done?”

“Yes. But not by me. Someone got to the landlord first. Went to work on him. Real thorough. Took their time, by the look of things. If he had anything to give up, then it’s long gone.”

“Any clues?”

“Only that it was professional and they didn’t care to clean up their mess.”

_Fuck._

“Is it him?” Snoke.

“Uncertain. But, if it was, you can assume he knows about the double.”

_Bloody fuck._

“When was it done?”

“Body’s still warm.”

“Where?”

“Where else? _Her_ place. Her old place, I mean.”

_Hell’s Kitchen._

“Witnesses?”

“None. I spoke to everyone in the building except for the girl herself. Nobody saw a thing.”

“What about security camera footage from surrounding buildings?”

“Already got it.”

“ _All_ of it? You know how I handle disappointment.”

“I got it.”

Ben sighs, wondering if Bazine tipped someone off with her recent antics. Once again, he chides himself for not wringing her neck when he had the golden opportunity. There’s something to be said for doing one’s own dirty work. He'd take care of her personally, but he has a houseful of company and no time and Rey to deal with.

Still. A hit like Plutt's will be all over the front page news when it’s discovered.

And Ben’s DNA is probably all over Rey’s old apartment, not to mention Rey’s.

She’s already in trouble for Canady, but if there’s any connection to Plutt, people are going to start digging. Plus, there’s the tiny inconvenience of one of Rey’s old neighbors possibly recognizing him from the papers, now that his social hiatus is over. Someone might say something. Especially if the cops come snooping around.

“Handle it. No evidence. Frame the decoy.”

At this command, Fett pauses for an unacceptable length of time.

“She’s gone missing, sir.”

Ben clenches his jaw until it hurts, breathing through his nostrils to calm himself. Just as he learned how to do in therapy. Sort of.

“You see, this is precisely the kind of information I find disappointing.”

He pinches his forehead, forcing himself not to fly into a rage.

“Sir? What are your orders?”

_This is why if I want something done right, I ought to do it my fucking self._

Into the phone, he snarls, “You. Are. A bounty hunter. Find the bitch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But first. No loose ends. Burn it all.”

“Yessir.”

“I expect to read all about it in the morning papers.”

No need to announce he and Rey are leaving the country mere hours from now. Aside from Mitaka, nobody knows, not even Rey.

Mother is sure to have a conniption over it when she finds out after the fact.

This thought brightens his mood even though he’s dreadfully late as he jogs down the stairs just in time to meet her fashionably late arrival.

“Benny, tell me you aren’t just now coming down to meet your guests. I thought I raised you to have better manners,” Leia scolds. Her sharp gaze lands immediately on his cheek, still pink from Rey slapping him, before moving to his freshly split lip.

Under his less-than-pristine dress shirt, his good humor sours a touch.

“Whyever are you still wearing your coat, Mother?” he deflects.

“I'm not leaving my ninety thousand dollar fur with some random coat check girl in the lobby.”

Helping her slide the coat from her shoulders, he hangs it in the entry closet himself while she looks on.

“Mmmh, right,” he hums with a touch of sarcasm, “of course, we can’t have the plebians handling your precious mink.”

She rolls her eyes. "You know I’m as egalitarian as the next, but I won't–"

"Won't stop acting like a pretentious snob? Despite the fact that your only son and heir carries the lowly name of Solo?"

Unmoved by his needling, she fires back with, “Why do you look as if you’ve been brawling?”

“My bride-to-be is a spirited girl. Very high strung.”

“Really? What on earth did you do to provoke her?”

“It’s embarrassing and I don’t care to discuss it.”

She raises an eyebrow that looks as if it’s been groomed within an inch of its life and demands, “Well, where is she?”

“She snagged a stocking and had to change.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mother,” he grins, bending to kiss her Chanel-scented cheek, “She wants to be perfect for you. Go on in, I’ll bring her to you and you can give her your full inspection soon enough.”

“What’s her name again? Rey Johnson? Not one of the Johnsons from Washington, is she?”

“She’s Rey from Nowhere.”

Leia humphs but gives him a playful smack on the arm. “Well. I suppose the first wife can be a nobody. Get it out of your system while you’re young. Like a dress rehearsal.”

“God, Mother, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. And isn’t _your_ dress rehearsal taking a rather long time?”

“Yes, well, your father and I are an exception to the rule. We’re both far too set in our ways to strike out on our own at this late stage in the game.”

“Speaking of which, where’s Dad?” he asks, searching briefly for his father’s tall, rambling frame among the party guests.

Leia mutters, “Oh, he took the chopper with Lando. You know the only thing he loves more than a grand entrance is a melodramatic exit. He’s probably already elbow-deep in your humidor, if I had to guess.”

“Then he’ll be busy for a while, I suppose.”

Ben’s humidor is notoriously well-stocked, as his father is well aware. 

Without a word, Leia sniffs and strides into the party.

Just as Ben wonders if he’ll be forced to go upstairs and drag Rey down by the hair, a movement catches his eye.

From the top of the steps, she looks a little wobbly in her high heels and he wonders if he miscalculated the effect of the sedative he gave her. Her eyes look bright – almost too bright – but she gives him a pouty smile and takes his hand readily enough when she reaches the bottom steps.

He steadies her and slips a hand into his pocket for Nona’s ring, not trusting her subdued demeanor for a New York minute.

“Hold out your finger.”

Her nostrils flare but she lifts her hand like a puppet on a string and he slides his grandmother’s ring back into its rightful place.

Perfect.

“You look stunning in that dress. And the necklace suits you.” He can’t help but goad her and his mouth quirks into a delighted grin when, at the mention of the necklace, her eyes flash with scathing reproach. He supposes he’ll need to adjust her attitude again after the party.

But she only hisses, “Was _anything_ you said upstairs true?”

Chuckling, he takes her arm.

“Yes, it’s all true. And I’d keep it to myself if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” he sings, _sotto voce_. “Play nice, baby. You can try to take me down. But remember if you do, you're coming with me.”

This shuts her up so quickly he has to tug on her arm to propel her to the center of their party.

He’s expecting quite a bit more resistance out of her, but to his pleasant surprise, she plasters a slightly bewildered smile on her face and he escorts her to the Mayor.

Inwardly, I curse as he apparently intends to just toss me off the deep end, socially at least.

I’m feeling a little stoned and still shaken by everything that’s happened.

“Uncle Lando, meet my fiancée Rey Johnson. Rey, this is our fair city’s mayor, Lando Calrissian.”

“Mayor Calrissian, of course. I know who you are,” I exclaim in what I hope is a sophisticated acknowledgment of one of the most recognized people in New York.

“Well, hello, hello, what have we here?”

Calrissian’s dark brown eyes glow with humor and I can’t help but be caught off guard by his extravagant charm when he kisses the back of my hand. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked down with pomade and he’s wearing a dapper tuxedo.

I’ve seen him many times in the papers and on the news. Although he seems as polished as he appears in the media, in person he gives off the impression of an aging scoundrel, maybe even a bit of a _roué_.

Still, I like him instantly, and I wonder how many of his cavalier manners – charming though they are – are simply old habits from a lifetime of navigating cutthroat New York politics.

“Benny Solo never told me he was engaged to such a beauty. Now I know why he’s been so absent from the social scene. He's been keeping you to himself all this time,” Lando grins.

My stomach squirms nervously as I realize marrying into the Solo family is going to put me into the proximity of all kinds of wealthy, powerful people like the Mayor.

 _Which is exactly the plan_.

People like Lando Calrissian can help me find out what happened to my parents, why they abandoned me all those years ago. I've never learned the full story, since all the records related to me were sealed and I’ve never been able to access most of them.

I keep smiling in spite of my nerves and the very faint, menacing tension emanating from Ben.

_What’s wrong, Daddy? Worried I’m going to do something embarrassing? Like call your bluff and tell everyone what a reprehensible asshole you are?_

Thankful I’ve at least learned the basics of this world after working for Hux and Canady, I keep my smile fixed firmly on, even as I glance around for a sign of Rose or Finn or even Poe. The sedative my so-called _fiancé_ gave me is making me loopy, dizzy almost. I feel uncertain, out-of-sorts, especially with all of the undercurrents I’m detecting from Ben.

But if anyone knows how to grope in the dark, it’s me, I grimly remind myself. I steel my spine and force myself to concentrate.

Small talk is easy enough if I let everyone else do the talking. Soon Ben is steering me to a tiny, sparkling woman who can only be his mother.

“Be convincing,” he whispers against my hair with a not-so-subtle squeeze of my hip. “She’s not nearly as nice as she looks. She won’t hesitate to publicly fillet you like a little trout if she doesn't like you.”

My heart pounds when I meet eyes uncomfortably like Ben’s and glowing with a familiar severity that belies her own polite smile.

She’s judging me and I know Ben, for all his lies, was telling the truth just now. I think she’ll create a horrid scene if she suspects I’m only marrying her son for his money.

_So, what if I am? He fucking deserves what he gets._

But she’s giving me the same x-ray stare Ben always gives me and suddenly I’m twelve all over again, meeting my new foster mom for the first time and worried like hell she won’t like me, afraid the rumors have already preceded my arrival and her predetermined judgment of my endlessly flawed character will only come out as a matter of course.

Subdued, I drop my gaze even as I feel Leia’s drift from the ring on my hand to Ben’s cut lip.

Oh _fuck_. Can she tell we just had a fight?

Part of me starts panicking, but another part speculates what would happen if I inform her that her son is a rapey, megalomaniacal, manipulative piece of shit.

And a murderer if he would have me believe it.

Which I’ve decided I don’t. There’s no way I would be so sexually attracted to a cold-blooded killer.

“Mrs. Solo. I’m Rey Johnson. It’s very nice to meet you,” I blurt out before Ben has a chance to say anything.

“Please call me Leia,” she invites. “Ben told me your good news already. When he came to retrieve my mother’s ring. May I see it?”

“Um? Oh! Yes!”

She gestures to my hand and I raise it in automatic obedience so she can examine the heavy, glittering stone.

Her eyes land next on my garnet necklace and I sense…approval.

“That’s a lovely piece of jewelry.”

Unconsciously, I touch the gems strung around my neck and murmur, “Thank you. It was a gift. From Ben.” I shoot him a tentative smile and he returns it with a decidedly lusty smolder.

Watching our exchange, her eyes warm up considerably, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. With sudden insight, I think wearing her emeralds tonight would have been a terrible faux pas.

“It’s lovely,” she says again, and smiling, takes my arm. Much to my very great surprise, she shoos Ben to fetch drinks and proceeds to lead me through the remaining introductions with all the grace of a high-society maven.

I wonder if this is a public endorsement of some kind and the party relaxes infinitesimally. The music from the grand piano seems just a bit jauntier and the guests’ chatter escalates in volume and sparkle.

As if this is a signal they were all waiting for.

After I feel like I've met everyone in the room twice, I start wondering if I can make an excuse to sit down. My attention drifts in and out, a sensation I am beginning to recognize, and it takes a minute to understand just why it feels so familiar.

_Of course, I had to drug you before I did it._

That bastard fucking drugged me. Wants me sedated. Wants me to behave.

Knowing this, I try to focus and listen, learn. Stay quiet so I can feel my way until I learn how to behave in this new environment.

I’ve been to fancy parties before, or at least parties I thought were fancy. This is by far the most glittering, exclusive thing I’ve ever attended.

But it isn’t all that scary. And even if the people in this room compose the upper-crust of Manhattan society, I’m quickly finding there’s a hierarchy here, too. A similar code of conduct as with any social gathering, only everyone here is about a million times more polished…or…or _something_.

It's money, I realize. Everything about this world screams shameless wealth. I remind myself it’s no different than anywhere else. Just because these people can afford to buy more sparkle to hide their sins, doesn’t mean they don't have any.

I finally catch sight of Rose and Finn and they hustle over when they see me, looking almost shy. I perform a few introductions of my own, and after exchanging polite greetings, Leia excuses herself to mingle with the other guests and leave me to mine.

Before I can get two words out, Poe strolls up to our little circle with a wide grin on his face.

“You certainly don’t look like someone who was recently accused of murder,” I dryly inform him. Poe is always one to appreciate a bit of sarcasm, but Finn scowls. I’m probably being irreverent. About my murdered boss. Whose murder weapon is covered in my own fingerprints.

Perhaps that sedative loosened my tongue, but fuck it.

“Accused is not convicted, baby,” Poe returns without missing a beat. “Rey, I’m so sorry about what happened to your boss.”

_And how many tears did you shed over it?_

“Yeah, Armie couldn’t make it,” Rose adds. “Didn’t think it would be appropriate to be partying so soon after…well.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” I do. And even if Ben and Hux are best friends, I’m not sure I’m a fan at the moment. Avoiding Rose’s all-knowing scrutiny, I turn to Poe. “Poe, what happened?” I ask, pulling him aside. “New Year’s Eve? You were attacked?”

“Honestly, I must have overheard something wrong at the party. I thought I heard Canady say he was gonna get…”

“Get what?”

He licks his lips and gives me a look, glancing around. “I don’t want to say in polite company…but then I heard Phasma mention she gave you drugs, and Canady said something about going to meet you.”

“You _heard_ that?”

“Yeah. So, I followed him to a restroom, away from the party. I waited outside for you to turn up. Took me a minute to figure out you might already be in there. By the time I went in after you, Canady was on the floor, laid out flat. I bent to check his pulse and someone bashed me over the head. Woke up with a concussion and some cute nurse shining a light in my eyes.”

“He wasn’t _that_ cute,” Finn gripes good-naturedly but he winks and gives me an _oh-yes-he-was_ thumbs up.

I can’t help but laugh, drawing Ben’s attention.

Like a shark moving through murky ocean waters, he sidles up, pure energy practically sizzling from him as he rakes me from head to toe. My knees feel kind of weak all of a sudden. There’s a faint blush of color on his lovely high cheekbones and his lips are red, full, reminding me of the sound he makes when he orgasms. The cut I gave him rather spoils the lush effect, but I wet my own lips at the memory of what he tasted like upstairs. 

Like whiskey and lust and madness. There’s a restrained violence about him tonight. Or maybe it’s always been there, that vague underlying danger.

I feel it, too, burning just under my own skin and I wonder if he put it there on purpose.

This is crazy, how connected we are, how aware I am of him and his moods, fluctuating like the sea. 

Or maybe not the sea. More like a riptide. A deadly current beneath an otherwise innocuous surface.

I take his champagne flute so he can greet Finn and Rose by taking each of their hands in turn.

They both look way too happy to see him, and I make a mental note to talk about this with them later, how easily they've accepted a predator into our midst, but Poe is practically humming with excitement, and I pause. Ben tenses, as if he’s sizing up Poe as a prospective threat.

I feel the odd urge to assure him Poe is like this with everyone – dangerously charismatic and too attractive for his own good – and he’s also as gay as it gets so Ben has no reason to be worried about any romantic competition. Poe is already stretching out a hand and introducing himself.

“Poe Dameron, Rey’s best friend’s husband.”

At his hearty greeting, Ben breaks into a charming smile of his own. “Ben Solo. Finn’s best friend’s fiancé.”

“I believe I have you and your lawyer to thank for getting me out of a bit of a jam earlier.”

Mildly shocked, I glance at Ben – neither he nor Vos mentioned anything about working with Poe – but Ben ignores my look and replies easily, “It’s the least I could do. Rey wouldn’t hear of leaving a friend in need.”

“Well, I’m thankful, nonetheless.” Poe sends a fond smile to Finn and it seems to lighten whatever tension was rolling off of Ben.

Smoothly, he takes the champagne from my hand before I can sip any.

“Your lawyer is good but not a shark like Vos. He made quick work of things, as I understand?”

“He did,” Poe agrees. “If they had charged us, Rey and me, I would have been tried first, then Rey as an accessory. Made more sense to handle our cases together so if we ended up getting charged we could get the whole thing thrown out at once. As it stands, they don't have any real evidence. Or motive.”

I shiver when Finn interjects, “Well, if we can prove Rey’s stalker exists, then the police will back off and they can find the real killer.”

Ben pulls me into his side and kisses the top of my head. For a moment I forget how furious I am with him and let him hold me while I zone out of the conversation, only paying attention again when Poe turns and stares almost wistfully at the painting over the fireplace. Referring to it with a nod of his head, he comments, “That is magnificent. But Rey said you had a Kenobi somewhere?”

“Are you kidding? I wish,” Ben mutters coolly. “I’m afraid my grandmother would never permit anyone else to have one. Not while she’s alive, anyhow.”

I feel my cheeks burn pink as Poe turns to me, incredulous and obviously thinking he’s caught me in a bald-faced lie.

My head is still reeling and Poe is giving me a _we’ll talk about the Kenobi later_ look and it occurs to me whatever Ben told me about the painting wasn't true.

That motherfucker.

“–that’s a work from a much earlier time. Not a Kenobi. It’s titled–”

 _“The Order of Eighteen-Sixty-Six,”_ someone behind me interrupts.

Infuriated and confused, I crane my neck seeking the owner of the voice and find the twinkling blue eyes of the man who can only be Luke Skywalker.

He’s famous, although a relative hermit since his career ended rather abruptly about thirty years ago, give or take. But as the son of the late Anakin Skywalker and a former ambassador to the United Nations, he’s still recognizable.

Ben growls lightly, “Uncle Luke. I didn’t think you’d come.” Then he tilts his glass to his uncle and confirms, “It’s a Palpatine.”

Something cold slithers down my spine at the name and everyone in our vicinity turns to look at the painting.

Even I, educated in the backwoods public schools of rural, upstate New York, have heard of Palpatine. A very famous mid-century artist. 

“A Palpatine? Oh, wow, that’s worth a thousand times a Kenobi.”

Ben is watching me, almost daring me to act up. I can feel the color leave my face as I practically read his fucking mind.

Fucking liar.

“Rey? Rey, sweetie, are you all right?”

Ben’s eyes tighten at the corners just enough to remind me of his earlier threat.

“I, um, I’m…”

“Baby, I told you not to drink on an empty stomach,” he interjects. “Here comes my mother. I’ll fend her off, shall I? Give you a minute to collect yourself?” Ben shoots a conspiring look to Finn and Rose, who step close to fuss over me.

It takes a few seconds for me to reign in my temper.

Poe’s still fawning all over the painting, and I want to scream that I’m not actually a liar. Ben Solo is.

He told me ages ago it was a Kenobi but I’ll look utterly gauche if I act like I can’t tell the difference in front of all these fancy people. I mean. I really _can’t_ tell the difference, but still. Nobody else needs to know that.

Besides, if I say anything about it now, it’ll be Mr. Randd the math teacher all over again. Times a million.

I’ll only look like more of a liar and nobody will believe me, anyhow.

So, I haul in my breath and try to think.

I have a lifetime of experience in this particular arena. All those years of counselors telling me I’m wrong, crazy, delusional.

I know how to smile and look as sane as can be. I’ve made it into my own personal fucking art form.

I know how to agree to someone’s face that I must have been dreaming something I know for a fact exists.

Somehow Ben’s behavior tonight only reminds me that what happened to me when I was a child was real. I know my own mind. I know the truth.

I wasn't crazy, even when everyone else told me I was. Kylo was real. Is real. It wasn’t all nightmares like my counselors insisted.

Something bad happened to me. Something forced my parents to abandon me with nothing but a toy doll and a head full of nightmares. Something made me so traumatized I couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – speak until I was six.

Something that, when I tried to talk about it, nobody else believed.

And this is something I know how to handle, better than anyone else.

Because Finn might be my best friend and always say he believes me, but he doesn’t really _know_ , not the way I know.

And Rose, she’ll always love me come hell or high water, but she wasn’t there that night.

None of them were there.

I can use Ben, access his money, his resources, his vast wealth to find out what happened.

And Ben, he can find anything, do or get anything he wants.

He can help me find out about my parents.

And Kylo, too.

I don’t know why Ben’s trying to make me look fucking crazy. But I know he is. There’s no other explanation for the lies about the painting and the necklace and the blood on his shirt after the New Year’s party.

Oh, God. The bloody shirt. He said I was imagining it.

“Rey? Do you need to sit down?”

It’s too much of a coincidence that Poe and Canady were assaulted that same night. And the blood on Ben’s shirt…

He _could have_ gone back inside and attacked Canady. He was livid about the drugs and he made sure I knew it. But he would’ve had no reason to attack Poe.

 _Unless Poe was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time_ , a little voice insists.

Poe was collateral damage? This would explain Ben’s tension when they met just now.

Oh my God. What if Ben was worried Poe would recognize him?

Is that why he’s put his own lawyer on the case? Out of guilt?

I can feel my heart thumping as I begin to connect the dots, but I have no time to continue this train of thought.

“You must be Rey.” Luke Skywalker steps up and shakes my hand. He doesn’t resemble Ben in the slightest, but he seems friendly enough. “I’m Luke. Ben’s uncle.”

“Hi.” It’s all I can get out without screeching what a lying bastard his nephew is.

“I always thought Ben was more Philistine than a connoisseur of good taste,” Luke mutters, staring at the painting. “I have to give him credit for acquiring such a magnificent piece. He refuses to tell me the name of his art buyer, and I can’t tell you how annoying that is. Maybe you and I can work out a deal.”

“A deal?” I ask stupidly.

“Yeah.” He winks and snags a canapé from a passing tray and pops it into his mouth. “Since we’re gonna be related soon.”

I look on, thunderstruck, while he halts the server and piles a small handful of canapés into the flat of his palm. I try to wrap my head around the fact that if anyone can help get my records unsealed, it’s probably this man.

“Well, thanks, Uncle Luke. We can work something out, I’m sure.”

The only thing keeping my temper in check is knowing that everything I need is here, I just need to take advantage of it.

Like Ben said. Take it. Take what I want.

Rose and Finn are looking at me like I’m crazy. I don’t know if it’s because I just addressed the former Ambassador to the United Nations as “Uncle Luke” or if it’s because I’m sure I have a wild look in my eyes which only intensifies when Ben wanders back, ostensibly from having fended off his mother.

With the hand not brimming with canapés, Luke shakes Ben's and offers a hearty congratulations followed by a softly uttered remark that sounds suspiciously like “for finding someone willing to put up with your eternal bullshit” before throwing a shit-eating grin my way and heading for the exit.

“Is he leaving already?” I ask the room at large.

Ben grunts and Amilyn Holdo approaches before anyone replies. Hers is one of the few names I remember from earlier. Leia introduced her as a family friend, but I know she’s also Ben’s therapist.

“So, where are you two going for the honeymoon?”

“Um.” I have no fucking idea. Ben takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. As if the answer is up to me. Wondering if he’s going to try to make me look like an insane person again, I toss caution out the window.

“Ben’s taking me to Molsheim. For a Bugatti.”

“Just window shopping. Baby has to learn how to drive first.”

“Never saw the need to learn myself,” Holdo admits with a too-friendly simper. “So long as I point the car in the direction I want it to go and step on the gas, how hard can it be?"

I’m thirsty and I reach for the nearest glass of champagne, but Ben sets a hand over mine.

“No more alcohol, baby. You know it doesn’t mix well with your medicine.”

“Medicine? Are you still sick?” Rose pipes in. She looks worried.

I sigh. I can feel the sedative thrumming through me, blunting the edges of what should probably be another healthy dose of outrage.

“A little something for my nerves. No big deal.”

“Your nerves? Rey, why didn’t you say anything?”

“About what?”

“Ben told us you’ve been ill.”

“He said you haven’t been well since just after Christmas,” Finn adds.

He’s talked more to my friends than I have this past week, goddammit.

“Well. I haven’t been able to call–” I flounder, but they’re just looking at me waiting for an explanation. “I’ve been…I couldn’t…”

“Baby, people are going to think I’ve been holding you hostage.”

Something in me snaps and I bare my teeth.

“Haven’t you?”

A terrifying light enters his eyes and he leans in to whisper, “I know what you're doing. And while it's adorable for now, don't push your luck.”

I let my lashes sweep down and give him what I hope is an apologetic expression. “Can I at least have some champagne?”

His smirk turns wolfish and he passes me his flute. “Sip it slowly.” He bends close and noses against my ear with a soft murmur, “I think I want you awake tonight after all.”

“Let me know if you need a recommendation for someone to do your prenup,” Holdo prattles, breaking the moment and sucking a martini olive off her cocktail pick with too much intensity. “Mine’s ironclad.”

Maybe it's her voice or the way her eyes linger over the breadth of Ben's chest under his tuxedo, but I'm instantly alert. 

_You fucking bitch._

My face flames red and I seethe with futile anger. Yeah, maybe he’s a total piece of shit and his behavior is not okay at _all_ , but anyone with two eyes in her head can see this woman wants him.

Ben is already responding so I don't need to. “Thanks, Amilyn, but we don’t need a prenup. We were just discussing it before the party. We’re staying together for the long haul. Until death do we part.” Amilyn lifts a haughty brow and sniffs and Ben goes on silkily, “Besides, a prenup is nothing but fidelity clauses and terms of surrender, isn’t it?”

The slightest inflection on the word _fidelity_ makes her blink and this is an interesting vibe I’ll need to evaluate later. For now, I look her in the eye and say, “But if you know of any good private investigators, I’d love a referral.”

The look Ben shoots me is brimming with warning. I ignore him.

“A PI? For what sort of investigation? Digging into Ben’s past?” Holdo widens her eyes, eager for a tidbit of gossip, although she’s trying to hide it behind a veneer of polite interest.

“No. To dig into mine. I want to find out why my parents abandoned me,” I announce.

My voice seems unnaturally loud and I don’t know if it’s just the ebb and flow of the party or if everyone around me senses the significance of this conversation or what. But everything seems to get extra quiet all of a sudden.

“Amilyn, would you excuse us?” She moves out of earshot with obvious reluctance, and Ben hisses, “Rey. Now isn’t the time.”

The hold on my arm tightens and too late I comprehend with a thrilling, terrifying swoop of my belly that I am in very deep shit and I sort of don’t know why.

“But. I was hoping there might be a way to find–”

“Didn’t I _just_ tell you to let the past die? Upstairs?”

“Yes, but…”

“Baby, I said drop it.”

“But I want to know,” I yank my arm out of his grip, “…who my parents are!”

“We can work out your daddy issues later, princess,” Ben mutters. “Not now.”

And maybe I can’t see the wicked gleam in his eye or hear the scandalized whispers.

But I can tell.

Everyone’s looking at me and all I see is red.

He can see it in her eyes half a second before she does it.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he snarls. Or rather he _would_ have snarled if the contents of her champagne flute weren’t flung in his face in a horribly familiar rendition of the Hux wedding reception incident.

He only gets out a hasty “Don’t!” before he’s soaked in Rey Johnson’s beverage of the moment. Once again, he must admit her aim is fucking impeccable.

In a voice pitched just loud enough to carry through the room while their guests eavesdrop with varying degrees of discretion, he forces himself to chuckle, “Fine, sweetheart. We’ll get you a _red_ Bugatti, then.”

_Less than twenty-four hours and we’re fucking married. And just for this little stunt? Oh, I’m gonna make you pay for it._

Rey huffs and stomps her foot like a goddamned two-year-old, and a charge of electricity rips between them when he drags her close and mouths against her ear, “Oh, Rey. You’re so fucked. Knock it off.”

She turns her head away, too afraid to catch his eye while he pretends to kiss her cheek and excuse himself to clean up, but Rose is already rushing in and fussing at her gown and the party reverts from appalled silence back to elegant chatter.

Instead of going upstairs, he heads for the downstairs powder room so he can rinse off, unwilling to go all the way to the master bedroom in case his sweet little angel tries to pull a fast one.

He’d be fuming, if her outburst didn’t play so well into his own plans. Now the room at large thinks they're headed to Molsheim. 

It only takes a minute to dab champagne from his hair and jacket and shirtfront. He presses a damp towel over his face and decides it’s good enough. He can shower on the plane after Rey is out. As he makes his way back to the main party, his phone buzzes a text alert. When he sees what Fett just sent him, it takes all of his considerable willpower to hide his initial reaction.

_Can’t find the girl and if the landlord isn’t discovered by morning, I’ll be shocked. This whole thing feels like a setup._

Quickly, he returns Fett’s text.

_Burn everything. Now._

But before he can slip away to make a call, Lando finds him and pulls him aside.

“That favor you called in is only going to hold things off for so long. The FBI is getting involved with the Canady case, and I have…limited leverage with them.”

“Rey didn’t kill her boss. She has a stalker. I think he’s trying to frame her.”

“Ben. You know I love you like family. But if you’re in trouble…you need to let me know.”

Ben grunts, scanning the room for someone who fits the bill.

Someone tall. Dark-haired and light-skinned. Someone who could be mistaken for him at a brief glance.

_…that catering waiter looks about right…_

“Excuse me, Uncle Lando. I need to run upstairs and change, after all. Keep an eye on Rey for me?”

“Sure thing, kiddo.”

Ben motions to the waiter and shoots off another quick message.

_I’ll send someone you can use instead of the decoy to take the heat off._

_You’ll find him in the building within the hour._

Ben strolls out of sight but I still plan on keeping Finn and Rose on either side. Like bookends.

Even in his wake, danger zaps through the air and my hands shake with adrenaline.

He’s definitely capable of violence, and I really, really can’t believe I just made a scene like that.

Fuck, I’m so stupid.

Fuck.

And even though I don’t believe his claim he’s murdered people, I’m silently freaking out, wondering what the hell he’s going to do.

“Rey? Are you okay?” Finn looks exasperated and even Rose seems disapproving. But they don’t know. They don’t know what I know. “Peanut, your pupils are crazy-wide…are you…high right now?”

Rose peers at me with too much concern and I’m stymied once again.

“It’s just a fucking sedative.”

“Ben says…you’ve been saying things. Seeing things?”

Fucking Ben.

Of course they’re taking Ben’s side.

Of course they fucking are. Why wouldn’t they?

_Think about what my name alone can get you. What it can get for your friends._

Ben just offered Finn a thirty million dollar charity to run and Rose is convinced he’s Prince fucking Charming for rescuing me from my shitty life and bad decision-making.

“Yeah, I just…would you excuse me for a second?”

Before I lose my nerve, I catch the eye of a tall, silver-haired man wearing a tuxedo the way most people might wear a hazmat suit.

This can only be Ben’s father.

He’s the image of Ben, but for the eyes, and though he’s older, he’s quite handsome and radiates a youthful vigor.

His eyes meet mine at the same time and a deep dimple slashes the side of his face. He tilts his head to the side of the room in a sort of “meet me over there?” gesture.

Ben is only going to be distracted for so long, and I need fresh air.

“Sorry I didn’t come out of the study sooner," Ben's father says by way of greeting. "My boy has an excellent cigar collection.”

He wiggles his eyebrows and I catch a faint whiff of cigar smoke.

“I’m Rey.”

“Han. You’re going to be my daughter-in-law, I hear. Good for Ben. Not so sure I can say the same for you.”

“What do mean?”

But he just gives me a smirk so reminiscent of his son, it takes me aback.

“Ben. I’ve never seen him look so…”

“Happy?” I offer too defensively.

“Smug. He’s usually so gloomy. A bit of a beast, I imagine. Hope you aren’t biting off more than you can chew.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know. By the way you just doused him in champagne, I’m putting my money on you, kid.”

My heart is thumping at the candor in his voice. If he had any idea what a monster his offspring can be in private, I wonder if he’d be so cavalier about our public squabbling.

“Mr. Solo. I’m hoping you can help me prove a point to him, actually.”

“I smell adventure.”

“Will you help me? Ben won’t like it at all.”

“Well, how can I say no to that? Sure, sweetheart. What are we doing? Bank heist? Arson?”

“Smuggling.”

He throws back his head and barks a laugh loud enough to turn heads.

“Well, hell. How’d you know that’s my specialty?” he rumbles, taking my arm and escorting me to the edge of the room. “What are we smuggling?”

Under my breath, I mutter, “Do you think you can smuggle me out of here?”

If crazy is what Ben wants, then crazy is what he shall receive.

“Sure, I can.” He doesn’t even break stride as he steers me out of the room towards the elevator in the main foyer.

“What, we’re just going to walk right out the front door?” I whisper, looking around for members of Ben’s armed goon squad.

“We are just going to walk right out the front door.” He goes to the coat closet and pulls out a gorgeous fur. “Put this on.”

“What? Whose is this?”

“My wife’s. Refuses to check her coat every damn time. It's my favorite thing about her. Very predictable.” He digs around for a minute while I slide Leia Organa’s fur over my arms. Han tosses a scarf my way and his boyish enthusiasm is contagious.

“Cover your hair. Pull up the collar.”

I do, and my heart is going to pound right out of my ribcage as we duck into the elevator, cool as can be. Two armed guards are inside and I keep my gaze averted, chin tucked into Leia's fur just as he ordered.

He takes out an old-fashioned flip phone and punches a few numbers.

“Hey, Chewie? We’re headed to the garage. Have the car ready. We’ll be coming in hot.”

_Hot? What does that mean?_

The elevator arrives at the garage level and Han hustles me out under the noses of two more guards. A car waits for us and we're barely in it before it peels out of the garage.

"Oh my God." It worked. It fucking worked. "There's no way getting me out of there should have been that easy."

But he just gives me a mischievous grin and asks, “Where am I smuggling you to, sweetheart?”

And on a whim, I blurt out the first place I can think of.

“Hell’s Kitchen. Please.”

If Ben won’t get me answers, I’ll get them my goddamned self. Takodana Palace delivers, and I need to find Bazine. They might have her address.

And I need to fucking hurry.

Before my crazed, possibly just a teensy bit psychopathic fiancé comes for me. Or anyone else. 


	25. entangle

# entangle

They’re within an inch of each other’s heights and his hair is a similar shade to Ben’s. Their resemblance isn’t terribly marked, otherwise, but it’s not going to matter, since he won’t be alive for long.

Ben flashes his most obsequious grin as his doppelganger approaches with a cautious, “Can I help you, sir?”

_You’ll do just fine._

He’s even wearing a polyester tux, a cheap imitation of Ben’s own.

“How'd you like to make five thousand dollars?”

“I’d love it. So long as it’s doing something legal. I'm, uh, on parole.”

_Even better._

“Totally legal. I just forgot to drop something off today and I need someone to deliver it. I’d use one of my usual guys, but I don't want to draw attention and have her find out I fucked up.”

“Um.” The waiter looks unsure, so Ben expertly applies a touch of charm.

“You can probably guess by what just happened in there, my girl doesn’t like it when things don’t go her way. I’d just as soon not give her any more reason to be upset with me. I’m sure you understand.” Pulling out his wallet, Ben starts thumbing hundreds. “I’d ask my assistant to do it, but he’s busy with the Mayor.” _Nothing like a little reminder of just who I rub shoulders with._ “How about we make it ten grand?”

“For ten g’s, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thanks…I didn’t catch your name?”

“DJ.”

“DJ, you’re totally saving my ass,” Ben mutters truthfully in his best, most ingratiating tones. DJ’s eyes are glued on the money. “Half now, half when you get back? It’s a couple of miles away, but if you’re worried about getting in trouble for missing work, I can explain to your supervisor.”

Ben gives a deliberate, semi-alarmed glance back to the living room where the party is in full swing. Just enough to impress the urgency of the situation on the hapless waiter.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll do it. No problem, man.”

“Okay, cool. Wait here.”

He runs upstairs to change his shirt and pull a comb through his hair. It only takes a minute to access the safe room and grab what he needs. When he gets downstairs, he hands it to DJ, along with his set of keys to Rey's old apartment.

“You really just gonna give me all this money and shit without even knowing anything about me?”

“I trust you. You’re not going to disappoint me are you?”

“Nah, I’ll deliver.”

“Good. Oh! And if anyone gives you any trouble, just tell them it’s from Kylo.”

“Sure, thing. Kylo?”

“Yeah, it’s a nickname. They’ll get it.”

Taking care of _Kylo_ before they leave the country is for the best.

Rey may be smart and figure things out eventually, but Lando implied that others will be looking for the truth, so the police need someone to pin all of this shit on in the meantime. If Bazine is missing, then Kylo will do in a pinch.

Maybe it's better this way. Buy him some time.

And Ben can’t ignore common sense simply because he’s eager to move things along with Rey. While her eventual emergence into society is not only inevitable but necessary, the fact she’s heir to a fortune that rivals his own is not going to come without its own serious complications.

Ben might have let it go and Snoke could have choked on all that money for all he cared.

But if Rey's identity comes out, Snoke will never rest until he knows his fortune is secure.

And even if Rey’s grandfather just celebrated his one-hundredth birthday back in Russia and has one foot in the grave, Snoke is still young enough to give him years of worry. Best if Snoke is dealt with sooner rather than later.

Briefly, Ben debates the merits of simply keeping Rey's identity a secret forever. But despite her misguided antics tonight, she deserves to know where she comes from.

Just not yet.

_I won’t have us build our future on lies, despite the need for deception for now._

As she is, she’ll never pass muster as a well-bred heiress, not in a million years. Especially not as someone with any kind of _imperial_ pedigree. Until he’s certain Snoke is no longer a threat, he’ll need to continue to do his best to make her look a touch unhinged, even if Nona is going to hate it. But, he reasons Nona will hate it more if she thinks Rey knows anything damning and anyone thinks she's a reliable witness.

Fucking around with the necklace is a good start.

But fucking with her head about the painting will destroy any credibility she might have had with her friends and his family.

And _if_ Snoke suspects her true identity and catches word she couldn’t even recognize her own grandfather’s artwork when it’s been literally right under her nose all this time, maybe he’ll back off and sniff around somewhere else until Ben can take him out for good.

That scene she made tonight will be talked about for certain. If Snoke doesn't hear of it soon, Ben will be vastly surprised. 

He shoots off another text to Mitaka to confirm the _Supremacy_ is ready for their arrival. The yacht will be as good a place as any to stash Rey for a few weeks. Or longer.

_And if you can’t swim, then you certainly can’t escape._

Honestly, he’s looking forward to an extended vacation, which will serve the dual purpose of keeping Rey out of danger and providing him some much-needed rest and relaxation after these past harrowing months.

_You’ve certainly been a handful, sweetheart. Daddy could use a break._

He runs his tongue over the cut on his lip and reluctantly admits Mother might be right for chiding him on his appearance. Appearances are everything here, and he’s spent the better part of his adult life maintaining them, if not for himself then certainly for his family’s sake.

Unease prickles at him, and he wonders what his father is up to.

_Probably still raiding my cigars._

_I suppose he can’t get up to any mischief in a penthouse full of people._

_And you won’t leave your friends, will you, baby? You’ll be too fucking terrified of what I’ll do if you pull another stunt on top of that last one._

Knowing this, he heads back to the party, seeking her amid the glittering, boisterous crowd.

* * *

From the front seat, the driver, Chewie, growls something that sounds like, “Bad neighborhood.”

Nervously, I glance to Han, wondering if he’ll call this off. But he only leans in and mutters, “This is Kanjiklub turf.” To Chewie, he says, “Keep an eye out. Try to blend in.”

“We’re pretty goddamn conspicuous.”

“Well then drive casual,” Han drawls. Despite my nerves, I grin.

"Honestly, I can't believe that worked," I laugh. "Getting me out of there like that?"

"Yeah, me neither, kid."

Chewie shakes his head and turns the car into an alley, checking the rearview and side mirrors with too much alertness. He’s huge and looks like he can handle himself in a fight, so I’m not sure why either of them is worried, but it seems slightly ominous if they know the neighborhood and are so on edge.

As I should be. As I _am_.

It’s only been a couple of weeks since I was last here, and yet it feels like an eternity. I can feel the active danger in the air, almost touch it. I barely recognize where we are, and it's a shock when I realize I used to live less than a block from this spot.

This _is_ a sketchy fucking neighborhood.

_We shouldn’t be here._

Being removed from it has dramatically altered my perspective. I can see now why Finn and Rose insisted on regular check-ins when I lived here, on why Finn hardly put up an argument when I asked him to give me a gun.

The perilous vibe doesn’t prevent Chewie from parking us behind Takodana Palace, and our limo stands out even more glaringly as it idles beside a few overfull dumpsters. Dirty orange light spills from the restaurant’s back door, which is propped open with a few crates of wilted vegetables.

Suddenly filled with misgivings, I’m hesitant to go inside. It is doubtful Bazine is in there at this time of night, and I'm having second thoughts about them keeping track of her address.

And Ben’s dad is being weirdly…clingy. He keeps trying to put his arm around me, and it feels sort of awkward. I mean. He’s going to be my father-in-law, but I wasn’t expecting him to be quite so friendly right off the bat. Maybe it's just making me nervous because I know Ben is a possessive asshole and he wouldn't approve of any of this.

_He's going to be so fucking pissed off._

Shit.

I try to convince myself maybe Han Solo is just being extra protective because I’m wearing his wife’s expensive fur coat and he’ll be in deep shit if anything happens to it.

But, to my surprise, Han scoots to the door on his side and swings it open.

“Hey, listen. I’ll go in and scope out the place for Kanjiklub, first. You stay in the car with Chewie, sweetheart. Then we’ll play it by ear.”

My gut is telling me he’s lying, that he’s up to something, but I nod and smile. It dawns on me he has no intention of letting me out of this limo. This is just a lark to him. A joke.

He’ll drag me straight back to Ben once he’s done whatever mildly nefarious thing he’s planning, and if he does, then I’ll never get the answers I need. Like who was paying Plutt to watch me. And why.

“Okay,” I reply, but instead of letting him close me in, I take the door handle and make it look as if I intend to pull it shut myself. I don’t close it all the way, and the minute he’s disappeared through the back door of Takodana Palace, I swing it back open again and slip out of the car.

Chewie exits without a word and follows in disapproving, stoic silence, and I’m seriously grateful for his intimidating presence. He’s six-foot-eight if he’s an inch, and every bit of him bristling with muscle. His thick auburn mane would be beautiful on anyone else, but on him, it lends a sort of Sampson-like menace.

I have no doubt he could literally rip someone’s arms off if he needs to.

This brings me a small measure of comfort as I proceed carefully out of the alley. I’m thinking about Ben and everything he told me. Everything he did.

I wonder if I really should marry him.

I wonder if I should just try to run away, try to start over.

Theoretically, I could. I’m wearing enough to give me a helluva start.

My diamond bracelet is worth an apartment in New York, but it’s years of survival if I make it stretch.

When you’re poor, you don’t think in terms of dollars and cents. You think in terms of when your next meal is coming and then the one after that. You live in the moment and solve your problems as you go.

But when you’re poor, you also learn what’s _really_ valuable. Fur coats and diamond bracelets won’t get me anything but mugged in this neighborhood.

And this fucking engagement ring I’m wearing could get me fucking killed. If I were in real trouble, I'd trade it for a gun in an instant.

Having Chewie at my side is worth a million diamond bracelets right about now.

The sidewalk is icy, slippery. I’m wearing flimsy high heels and can hardly walk in them, let alone run.

Fucking Ben and his sedatives. Dizziness washes over me and I wonder what exactly he gave me. A Xanax? Valium? Whatever it was, it isn’t enough to make me sleepy, but I feel dull, blurry.

He’s going to murder me for running away in the middle of our engagement party.

If he’s done even half of what he said, not to mention what I suspect of his role in Poe and Canady’s assaults on New Year’s…I think I’ve made a serious mistake.

With a sort of sickening cognizance, I pause. I not only stole his mother’s fur coat and absconded with his father without telling a soul, but I’m also supposed to be the target of a kidnapping…and not one of his security team is around.

_You came here for answers. And we're past the point of no return, now._

Determined, I walk faster. The fur I’m wearing draws a few odd looks, but once people catch sight of Chewie they avert their gazes in what would be a comical exhibit of avoidance under any other circumstances.

Nobody wants to tangle with him, and my confidence expands.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen, if I am hoping Bazine will pop out and explain everything or what, but I find myself following a familiar path.

All of a sudden, I find myself stopped partway down the block looking at my old brownstone. Through the chilly gloom, the place looks awfully run-down. Light moves in the window of my old apartment. Even as I watch, it flickers, then snuffs out.

A candle? No. A flashlight, maybe?

No.

My heart starts to pound too hard and a lump of fear gets caught in my throat.

It’s fire.

As the thought hits me, I catch a whiff of smoke.

Chewie sees it at the same time and grunts, “Stay back. Stay right here.”

But I can't move if my life depends on it.

I can only watch, frozen, as he runs to the front door and pushes all of the call buttons at once, and bellows “Fire!” into the intercoms.

I hear breaking glass and a burst of flame erupts from the top story window. My old window.

_Is someone in there?_

A man rushes up to my side and looks on in dismay. He’s tall and dark-haired, wearing a cheap tuxedo shirt and tie under a leather bomber jacket. He seems familiar, but I can’t place him.

“Oh shit!” he exclaims at the fire. “Did someone already call 9-1-1?”

I’d answer but I can’t speak, can’t think straight.

“Do I know you?” I squeak, stumbling back a step. My voice is gone. I don't think he heard me.

Clearly, he recognizes me, though, if the look on his face means anything. For a few seconds, we stare at each other.

“Uh,” he holds out a paper and a ring of keys. “I’m supposed to deliver this. From Kylo.”

"What?" I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

Shaking, I take the paper. And when I see it, goosebumps rise over every inch of my skin.

It's my admissions letter from Jakku Community College. And on the back, a terrifying scrawl.

Is this fucking him? Kylo? The asshole who’s haunted me since I was a child?

He looks disreputable enough, that’s for sure.

Why is he here? Trying to get to Bazine?

Smoke is pouring from my old building, and a few residents come running outside.

_…thinks I’m you…is watching me…bad…not…who you think…_

“Kylo?” My voice is raw, scratchy, and I have to repeat myself. “You're Kylo?”

And just like that night, there's a fire, but I can’t speak, can't yell for help. Voices echo to me as if through a hollow tube, and my vision narrows to a pinprick of light.

I think I hear Han Solo shouting and someone catches me under the arms, and that's the last thing I know before I surrender to the blissful oblivion of darkness.

“I want the name of everyone who left the penthouse in the last half hour.”

“Aside from a catering waiter and Mitaka, your father and mother just pulled out of the garage. About fifteen minutes ago.”

“That wasn’t my mother, you fucking moron. I'm fucking looking at her right now.”

“Uh.”

Ben doesn’t have time for this. Spinning on his heel, he snags his coat from the closet and promptly notices his mother’s mink is missing.

“You’re fired," he snaps. "Put someone competent on.”

A new voice comes on the line almost instantly. “Sir?”

“The person who left with my father. Could it have been Rey? Wearing my mother’s mink coat?”

“It could have been sir, we’re reviewing the video footage now.”

“No. It was her. She’s with my father and so help me God if anything happens to her I will personally strangle every single fucking one of you. Fucking find her. Now.”

“Yes sir.”

They can’t have gone far in fifteen minutes.

 _Fuck._ That’s more than enough time for his father to do plenty of damage. Unmitigated rage sears through him, burning everything but a single thought to cinders: _Find her._

He paces the foyer, waiting for a word and glaring at anyone who crosses his path.

Just as he’s considering the unthinkable and tearing this whole fucking town apart with his bare hands, Mitaka calls. He checks his watch automatically.

_Thirty-seven minutes since I last saw you._

Perfect.

If Mitaka is calling, it can only mean that fucking catering waiter decided to cut his losses and run, too.

“What?” he bites out. "Did my decoy not arrive?"

“I followed him straight to Hell’s Kitchen as you asked me to. To, er…that _apartment_ building?”

“Mitaka, I don’t have time for a play-by-play.” His patience is wearing dangerously thin. Still, he takes the time to remove his gloves from his pocket and slide them over his hands.

“Sir, it’s your father’s car–”

“Where?”

“In the alley behind Takodana Palace. I wouldn’t have noticed it, but I recognized his driver.”

_Fuck._

“Don’t lose them. Don't let anyone see you. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Leia rushes up just as he steps into the elevator.

Slipping his phone in his pocket, he takes a calming breath and tells her, “I need you to help me with this.” He waves his hand and Leia nods, her eyes glinting somberly. “My fiancée has apparently decided it would be a hilarious prank if she runs off with Dad.”

His mother scowls, an expression her dermatologist would never approve of, which only underscores the seriousness of the situation, and Ben’s pulse jumps into overdrive.

_You know all about Dad’s nasty little habits, don’t you? I should’ve fucking known he never stopped. Not even after…_

“Ben. You need to find her. She’s…not safe.”

“I know,” he snarls, jabbing a finger at the elevator button. “Handle this for me.” He gesticulates vaguely to the party behind her. “Tell everyone we’ve eloped, I don’t fucking care.”

“ _Find_ them. Ben…”

“I fucking know!”

"Ben. Such drecky language."

Mastering himself, he dons his mask of calm. Control.

“We’ll talk about it later, Mother.”

“I’ll wrap things up here, shall I?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I wake up just as I’m being shoved none-too-gently into the back of a limousine.

“We can’t just leave!” I try to twist away from the unforgiving grip on my ribs, but I can’t do it. “There was a fire! And my stalker was there! What happened?”

I feel like I'm shouting, but it's coming out as more of a whimper.

“Calm down, sweetheart.” Han exchanges a glance with Chewie in the driver’s seat. “That was Fett’s kid back there. The only way he let me out of his sight is because he was on a job.”

“A job?” I’m lost. The limo engine revs to life and Chewie pulls forward. “What about Kylo?”

Han licks his lips and gives me an odd look, “That other guy? The one talking to you? Was he Kylo? Fett knocked him out. Said 'you're supposed to be in there, not out here' and dragged him off.”

From the driver’s seat, Chewie grunts, “Fett’ll be busy for a few.”

“Let's not hang around and find out for how long. Take us somewhere quiet.”

“But. There's a fire," I try to argue. "Someone needs to call for help."

They ignore me and we're already bumping along down a side street. Chewie drives for a few minutes and pulls up near the Hell Gate Bridge. If my old neighborhood was bad, then this one is possibly worse. 

Chewie leaves us parked and exits the car.

Han scootches close enough that I can smell cigar smoke on his breath. And alcohol.

It’s making me sort of nauseous. He puts his arm around the back seat headrest and I feel trapped.

My hands are shaking and I have an irrational urge to get out. To run.

“Not so fast, sweetheart. He's just gonna go check things out for us real quick. Make sure we're safe.”

“Where did he go? I can't see him.” I whisper. “Is he going to be okay?”

Han looks around. “Keeping watch just over there, see? Giving us some privacy. So we can get to know each other a little better.”

Something is _wrong_ …something is screaming at me to get out. The only thing keeping me in the relative safety of this claustrophobic limo is Ben’s earlier mention of a kidnapper and the fact we are in a very dangerous neighborhood.

A rocket of terror soars through me.

Fuck. What if Kylo was going to kidnap me just then? And that Fett guy saved me? Was he one of Ben’s security people? Is that how Chewie and Han knew him?

I decide I’m not leaving this limo until it’s parked safely back in the garage at Ben’s building, and I’ll take my fucking chances with Ben.

With a friendly smile, Han sits back and offers me his flask. The leather wrapped around it has been worn down to the metal. It’s obviously a well-loved item, and I take a swig, then another once I realize it’s not booze I’m drinking.

It’s sweet and almost syrupy. I sit quietly, growing numb and sleepy with every passing minute.

“What…was that stuff?” I slur. I can barely keep my eyes open.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. Wa-what is it?”

“Uhhh. My own concoction. I call it night-night juice.”

Confused, I blink at him. Dread spills into me alongside a familiar lassitude.

“What?” My tongue feels thick and heavy.

And my heart nearly thuds to a stop when he flashes me a sheepish grin.

“My boy never did like it when I played with his toys.”

He’s almost there when Fett calls.

“Some jerkoff named Kylo showed up. I’m assuming that was the guy?”

“Yes.”

“Good. He's in position, they'll find him soon. Your bride-to-be was there, too. With your old man and his crony.”

“ _Was_ there? Tell me you tracked them down.”

“I did. They’re parked over near the Hell Gate Bridge. I’ve got eyes on his limo right now. Thought I spotted Mitaka, too, but I can't be sure.”

_Fuck. Fuck._

“Leave Mitaka. Take out the crony if you can. Don’t fucking let that limo out of your sight. I’m three minutes away.”

* * *

The last thing I remember as I drift into consciousness is Han Solo’s whiskery face coming at me and I can’t move.

I’m jostling along in a moving car. I try to figure out where I am and give up. Beyond being fairly certain I'm not injured, I can't really muster the effort to shift positions, uncomfortable as I am. It hurts to open my eyes, although serious relief swamps me when I realize Ben is here.

I would scootch closer to him, but I’m unwilling to push my luck. I can see by the look on his face he’s furious, even if he’s deadly calm. He’s still wearing his tux, and this time when I notice the blood all over his shirt, I don’t ask whose it is. I don't want to know.

We’re driving into what looks like an airport. I have no idea how any of this works, but we’re definitely not at a normal airport like the kind I’ve seen in the movies. I feel really spaced out and close my eyes halfway.

However, I rouse myself significantly when the car stops. I see a plane waiting for us. Cold, sleety rain is beginning to fall and I shiver. The fur coat is gone.

“Are we going on that plane?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies curtly. A horrible, quiet tension holds him unnaturally still, reminding me of nothing so much as a cobra before it strikes.

“But. I’m afraid to fly.”

“You ought to be afraid of so much more than that.”

Our car pulls to a stop, and Ben slips out without a word. He leaves the door open and I overhear his order, “Put her on the jet. If she fights, restrain her.”

He motions me to come out, and I force myself to slide over the seat and out of the car.

“If she tries to run,” he ducks his chin and looks me square in the eyes, even though he speaks to his nearest henchman, “disable her.”

“Yessir.”

“Vic?”

“Sir?”

“I don’t want her maimed or permanently damaged, you understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Other than that, do whatever you need to do.” To me, he growls, “Get your ass on board. I’ll see you soon.”

I stare, gape-jawed as he strides to another car to meet Mitaka, waiting for him.

A rough tug on my arm reminds me I have a plane to board, and for once, I’m too fucked up to care much what happens next.

Halfway there, we need to stop so I can vomit all over the tarmac. My ears are still ringing as I am rather rudely escorted onboard Ben's private jet. It's lovely, I think. Everything is creamy leather and ultra-shiny polished wood and I would be more curious if I weren’t so dreadfully ill.

I stumble into a comfortable-looking seat, close my eyes all the way this time, and pass out.

When I wake again, I'm disoriented and have a pounding headache. Everything around me is gently vibrating and at first, I think I’m once again in a moving car.

I realize with a stroke of terror we’re already in the air.

Ben is talking and it takes a few seconds for me to understand he’s got his phone on speaker.

“–be staying in New York to handle my affairs while I’m gone.”

_“You’re heading to Ahch-To?”_

“Yes, and I want the crew ready for immediate departure once we arrive at the port. I’m hoping we can get Pryde to fly in from wherever he is? We’ll be abroad for a while.”

_“I’ll contact Pryde’s assistant right away, sir. If you sail out before he can get there, he can take the copter to wherever you are.”_

“Good.”

The call ends and I breathe for a minute or two, faking sleep and prolonging the moment when I have to look at him. 

“I know you’re awake.”

Blearily, I force my eyelids open. Even the lowered lights are hurting my eyes and I narrow them.

“Where…are we?”

“Somewhere over the Atlantic.”

He’s seated across from me, watching me with a sinister, catlike malice. His fingers flash and fidget with a black piece of cloth that he twists around and around. After a minute or two, I figure out what he’s playing with.

My underwear.

I’m huddled under a blanket and I wonder what happened to the fur coat I was wearing.

His mother’s. Shit, she’s going to be royally pissed off. And his father.

Well. At least now I know where Ben gets it from. Although somehow Ben’s behavior doesn’t strike me as nearly as awful as what his father tried to do to me.

“My head hurts really bad,” I moan pathetically. It’s not much by way of a conversation starter, but anything is better than this terse silence.

“Shut. Up.”

If I was hoping for sympathy, my heart sinks. He’s anything but sympathetic. He’s beyond furious, his black mood charging the atmosphere with dark energy.

“I thought I already told you not to take candy from strangers.”

“I didn’t think your father was that kind of stranger,” I snipe acidly.

“How much of his party punch did he manage to get down your pretty little gullet?”

_Night-night juice. How the hell does he know about that?_

“What was in that stuff?” I mutter, not quite ready to sit up yet. I’m feeling distinctly queasy, and the look on Ben’s face is not helping.

“Probably a fair bit of pentobarbital, if I had to guess. Some Benadryl maybe.”

“I didn’t know what it was, or I never would have…he, he tried to–”

Annoyed, Ben leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and raking me with his gaze.

“Tried? Or did he actually manage to assault you?”

Ben doesn’t look nearly as shocked as he should. I try to collect the vague, splintered images from my memory, but it’s a gaping black hole.

“I don’t think he did anything other than scaring the shit out of me,” I admit. “You don’t seem very surprised by his behavior.”

His eyes sweep me from head to toe as if he can see for himself what happened. I’m a little irritated, actually. Some comfort would be nice.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been aware of my father’s proclivities for a very long time. Now fucking shut up.”

I know I should obey him for once. He looks like he wants to strangle me, even if I probably deserve it. But I can't stay quiet.

“He was going to hurt me.”

“I know.”

“How do you know? Did he tell you?”

Stoic, with a face carved out of stone, he replies, “I know my father. What he’s capable of. What he _was_ capable of.” He flashes me an ironic twist of his lips. “I would have warned you, had you given me a chance. As fathers go, he would have disappointed you.”

I can’t help but grumble, “You’re not just letting him get away with it? What he did was–”

His jaw clenches and if anything, his stare turns darker.

“He didn’t get away with it. He won’t bother you again.”

“Were the police-?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“As a doornail.”

I’m simultaneously trying to process that he just lost his father and that he’s delivering the news so…calmly.

“Kylo was there. At the fire. At my old building. Your father…said that Fett guy did something. To Kylo.”

Ben shoots me an astonished look, then barks a laugh. I don’t know what’s so funny, but I think my stalker is dead.

I wonder if this will make things easier or more complicated for Canady’s murder investigation. Either way, I feel like I should be more relieved about Kylo being out of the picture.

“I’m not supposed to leave the country, am I?”

“Technically you’re only a person of interest. Legally, you can go anywhere you want.”

“I want to go back to New York.” Rose and Finn and Poe are all probably wondering what the hell I’ve done. My head throbs. “We need to make sure–”

“You’re not going anywhere but where I fucking tell you to go. As far as the police are concerned, Kylo is responsible for the fire in Hell’s Kitchen. Evidence was found on his corpse to prove he was stalking you. He was trying to cover up a murder, apparently.”

“Murder?”

“Your old landlord.”

_Plutt? Why?_

“And your father? What happened to him? How did he…?”

_Die. How did he die?_

“He was killed in a mugging under the Hell Gate Bridge. I suspect his body will be found by morning.”

My eyes drift to his pristine, expensive-looking sweater, all traces of his bloody tuxedo shirt long gone.

"How do you know it was a mugging?"

None of this makes any sense. My head aches. My body hurts and I sit up. It feels like I've been slouching in this seat for a while.

While I process all of this new information, Ben checks his watch and informs me, “We’ll be landing soon. Before we exit the plane, a customs official will board and ask us a few questions. You will answer _yes_ or _no_ and otherwise keep your fucking mouth shut. Can you handle that? Or do I need to put you to sleep again?”

“I’ll…yes.” Something beyond hazardous is pouring off of him, danger on a scale I’ve never felt before. This isn’t playing. He’s dead serious. “I can handle it.”

“I certainly hope so. For your sake.”

With a few brusque motions, he makes another phone call. His damned phone is on speaker again and all I can think of is how badly my head is throbbing. But, I listen, eyes shut tight against the lights.

_“Mitaka.”_

“I need you to make some special arrangements onboard the _Supremacy_. Before we arrive.”

_“Yes, sir. What can I do?”_

“I need a set of wrist restraints bolted to the headboard in the master cabin, plus a few other items.”

My curiosity perks up, but I keep my eyes closed.

_“What items do you need, sir?”_

“…a set of handcuffs. A set of leg irons. One locking ankle spreader, doggy-style. Condoms. Lube. One box of medical exam gloves in my size. Two lengths of nylon rope and a pair of bondage safety scissors. One split-tip leather riding crop. One jar of honey. Two adjustable ball gags, one breathable, one non, and one silicone bit gag, also adjustable.”

_“Did you want metal or leather restraints, sir?”_

“Surprise me.”

_“Yessir. Anything else?”_

“Yes. A first aid kit. And I want our concierge doctor on call. Just in case.”

_“Consider it done, sir.”_

I peek at him through my eyelashes, pretending as if I didn’t just hear all of that and trying not to squirm.

He ends the call and mutters an ominous, “You should go clean yourself up before we land.”

Instead of obeying, I bluster, “Restraints? Gags?” A diabolical smirk slides over his face, and my belly does a full somersault. “Whatever you’re planning, it’s not going to work.”

“We’ll see.”

I hate how my voice shakes. “Your scare tactics aren’t going to frighten me into submission.”

“I’m not planning to frighten you into submission. I'm planning to fuck you into submission. There’s a difference, sweetheart. Which I’m sure you’ll learn. Just as soon as we arrive at our destination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any of my dear readers who were cheering for Han last chapter and are now realizing your comment didn’t age well, my apologies…Look. I saw your excitement after Han whisked her away. Ya’ll were so thrilled. I sort of low-key agonized about what I had planned for him. I almost changed my mind.
> 
> And then I decided that if I’m actually going to use anything from canon, then it should be the family resemblance, right? 
> 
> Which in this case means Han is also a rapey, manipulative shithead. 
> 
> Also, if we’re going to have Han Solo being murdered by his own son in any story, canon or otherwise, it should probably be in a dark story like this one.
> 
> ALSO, I have been gifted some truly awesome artwork and stuff these past few weeks, I've just been horribly delinquent in adding them, but I WILL.
> 
> xoxoxo!


	26. teach

# teach

He still doesn’t remember jumping out and running to his father’s limo before his own had even pulled to a full stop, but he must have.

He doesn’t recall knowing or caring if Fett had done as ordered and taken down Chewbacca. He only knows he’d spotted Chewie’s knife, abandoned in the dirty street, and snatched it up, stuffing it into his overcoat pocket before flinging open the back passenger door and dragging his father by the collar off of Rey.

He doesn’t remember flinging Han Solo to the ground, but he must have done this, too.

He only remembers the sight of Rey, unconscious and draped awkwardly across the seat.

Perhaps she would have made a beautiful sight. If she’d been on display like that for him.

But none of this was for him.

A hasty glance told him Han hadn’t yet managed to get his pants undone, although Rey’s dress was tugged down to her waist and her skirt was pushed past her hips.

And her underwear conspicuously down around her knees.

The sight burned itself into his mind, and he will never forget it, ever. Nor forgive.

His father huddled on the pavement, one hand out of sight. Ben was positive he held a gun. Instead of attacking and risk getting shot, or worse, risk a stray shot hitting Rey, he kept himself unnaturally calm, knowing one predator must never show weakness to another.

“Well look who comes to the rescue," Han drawled, gruff and looking only mildly chastised. "I’ll bet you just love playing the knight in shining armor for a change. That’s how you’re gonna spin it, right?”

“What did she need rescuing from, Dad?”

“She passed out like that. Was just gonna call for help.”

_Calm. Don’t give in to your emotions. Stay in control._

"Really?" he kept his voice even, light.

“You know she came with me, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Han’s eyes landed on the cut on his lip and he sneered, “What’d she do? Smack ya trying to fend you off? I can see why you’d have trouble keeping your hands off her.”

This jab hit far too close to home, but Ben has long since become an expert at deflecting his father’s barbs.

He paced closer, holding out his hand to pull Han to his feet.

_Don’t pose a threat. He’s old but wily. He never did hesitate to shoot first if he senses danger._

“Where’s Chewie?” Han grunted.

_Where’s your gun, old man?_

“He’s around,” Ben replied with as much indifference as he could manage. “I think I saw him over there.”

“How’d you find us so fast?”

“You never learned how to cover your tracks.”

His father gave him a roguish grin and Ben returned it. As if they were buddies. Friends. His father had no idea he was about to die.

Ben should’ve killed him right then, while Han was distracted scanning the poorly lit street behind him. It was the perfect opportunity, but he held back. Waiting for what, he didn’t know.

“Looks like you’re about to lose your temper, son,” Han mentioned, casting a casual glance over each shoulder.

_Oh. I get it. You’re fucking waiting for Chewie to come to your rescue, only he’s already in Hell. Where I’m sending you, directly._

“I learned to hold my temper a long time ago. At school.”

“I always wondered why the old bag decided to ship your whiny ass to military academy.”

“It was reform school, and you know damn well it’s your fault I was locked up in that hellhole.”

_So much for holding my temper._

“My fault? My fault? Because you were spying on me with your slutty governess?” Han’s tone turned to mild scorn, and Ben was tempted to tell him he knew _everything_ , all of his father’s sins. But he let the old man ramble. Those were his final words, after all, and he might have provided some useful insight Ben could use in the future. “Are you sure you weren’t sent away because you decided it would be hilarious to burn down your uncle’s hippy-dipshit art studio?”

“I burned down Luke’s studio _after_ I found out what you did.”

“Nah.” Han shook his head, insisting, “I think it’s because her _worshipfulness_ wanted you to grow up. Learn how to be a man. And look how good you turned out.”

He sounded almost proud and Ben fought a wave of soul-smothering wrath when he realized that _thing_ he was wishing for would never come. Not from this man.

Still, he despised the tiny pinprick of hope that made itself uncomfortably conspicuous.

_Wishes are for dreamers, Benji and dreams are the only luxuries you cannot afford. No matter how wealthy you become. You must learn to be practical. Ruthless._

Making a decision, he snuffed it out, killing that spark of hope as easily as snapping his fingers. Rey needed tending to and it was freezing outside.

“I didn’t turn out so good at all, Dad. I’m exactly like you.”

Han, never a man to grasp nuance, only laughed, “You know who she looks _exactly_ like? I don’t think your grandma would approve.”

The jibe carried too much truth, and this, if nothing else, sealed Ben’s decision.

He glanced again to Rey, slumped in the car, out cold. She wouldn’t see anything.

The faint blare of sirens pierced the night and Han perked up, looking beyond Ben’s shoulder as if they were coming for him.

_I ought to have put you down years ago._

_But there’s no time like the present._

“Hey, let’s get out of here. We’ll pretend none of this ever happened. It was all just a big misunderstanding. I’m flying to Italy tonight, anyhow. I’m going to marry her. We’re in love.”

The sirens grew louder, but Ben held his father’s gaze until the older man finally let down his guard. Tucking his gun into the waistband of his pants, Han gave him an open-handed shrug and smirked, “Ah, hell. Love, eh? Then I should have said it sooner. Congratulations. She’s quite a little firecracker.”

Gripping his knife with a horrible sense of finality, Ben pulled him in, as if he would turn his father’s handshake into a hug. Han seemed surprised, almost pleased as he gave his son a half-hearted pat on the back. But Ben would never know his dad's last thoughts.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making this next part easy.”

Rousing himself from his dark reverie and checking that their passports are in order, he observes Rey and is filled with melancholy. He doesn’t expect any problems with the customs officials when they land, but preparation is everything.

As he should have known from the start.

She’s dozed off again and he leaves her alone, preferring to have her compliant when they land. He needs her calm and quiet for a change.

She seemed to genuinely fear the idea of flying and he won’t wake her until the jet begins its descent towards the small private airfield off the coast of Italy.

Perhaps the façade of crazy can be lifted a bit once they’re alone on the yacht.

Although.

Although an entirely different problem is rearing its head.

His hands are no longer shaking as they were on the ride to the airport or when he’d ordered her onto the jet and hoped to God she’d fucking obey without forcing his hand. He’d been on the verge of losing control, and it wouldn’t have gone well for either of them if he had, not with so many hired staff looking on.

Thankfully, she had done as he'd ordered, and he’s even more grateful she passed out before he boarded, giving him time to strip out of his coat and gloves and change his shirt without worrying she’d attempt to escape him again and fly straight into the arms of some new danger.

After retrieving her from Hell’s Gate, he’d ordered Mitaka to the penthouse to pick up the essentials they needed for the trip – their passports and marriage license being most important – before disposing of Ben’s bloody clothes and knife.

_Mother knew. She fucking knew about Dad. All this time._

His stomach turns as he watches Rey sleep. She’ll be terribly uncomfortable and cramped from being in this position for so many hours, but he is strangely reluctant to move her, even though she’s not getting true rest or accustomed to the physical rigors of traveling.

 _We can sleep on the_ Supremacy _. We’ll both be jet-lagged, anyhow. And if you’re chained to the bed, I’ll be able to rest at ease._

Rest first.

Then punishment.

He has no doubt Mitaka will have executed his orders by the time they arrive. Even from a distance, the man is impressively efficient, although this comes as no surprise to Ben since arranging things and fetching things are precisely the sorts of tasks for which Mitaka receives his near-exorbitant salary. And he's worth every penny.

Ben smiles to himself, certain the man will be glad for the relative break with an entire ocean between them.

His brief humor dies when Rey sniffles and moans. She’s usually dead silent when she sleeps, and a dark cloud falls over his heart at the sight of her restlessness.

He should have known from the start, if not from the instant she rejected him at that wedding rehearsal, then certainly the first time she doused him in alcohol.

He is dealing with much more than a stubborn temper and a wild spirit that needs taming.

_Your wayward conduct is going to get us both fucking killed, and I need to put a fucking stop to it. I’ve gone way too easy on you, sweetheart. No more mistakes._

She’s beyond obstinate. Nearly unteachable, definitely unpredictable. Unruly. Like he was before Nona had him enrolled at Black Spire Military Academy.

At least marrying Rey will make her his family, and Nona’s by extension. Nona will have to help him protect her if they’re married. But she’ll be furious about it.

_Secrets are for keeping, Benji. Some can never come out, ever. If they do, it hurts more than just one person, you understand? It hurts the whole family. And we must always present a united front. A strong front._

Only, married or not, Rey is not even close to ready to meet his grandmother, yet. Not by a long shot.

_Nona will never accept you if you can’t become one of us._

Maybe he’s known all along, what it will really take to get her to understand.

The plane dips down and an attendant comes by to quietly inform him to prepare for landing.

His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time.

Mother has left a dozen unanswered messages since they left the city, but he can’t speak to her yet, can’t listen to her voice without knowing for a fact he’ll blame her, too, for permitting his father to live so comfortably all this time, for fucking _protecting_ him, all because–

_It’s time to let the past die, Mother. I’m done carrying everyone’s fucking secrets. Even yours._

He knows what he has to do, he just doesn’t know if he has the strength to do it. Mustering the last of his reserves, he pulls out his phone and readies himself to make the call.

Just then, Rey blinks awake and gives him a wary look. Instead of going through with the call to his mother, he sighs and returns Rey’s cautious regard, all worries forgotten.

If he can find the will to teach her what she needs to know so she can become who she was meant to be, then he can damned well find the strength, too.

_You don’t have a fucking choice anymore, sweetheart._

The catnap I took after hastily washing my face and hands and armpits in the surprisingly large bathroom of the plane did nothing to ease the seriously debilitating hangover I’m feeling. Although I will admit it helped to have a comfortable outfit to wear for the rest of the trip. I have no idea where it came from, and I don't care.

Someone has opened every other window shade and sunlight pours into the jet’s main cabin.

The plane drops altitude and my stomach plummets with it. I can actually feel my face turning green when Ben passes me a doggie bag. It’s stupid, but I don’t want to throw up in front of him.

I know I already look like hammered shit and I’m in big trouble, too. I feel a surge of guilt over last night’s hijinks, which ended with his mom’s fancy coat going missing and his dad being killed.

_How did he know it was a mugging?_

I think he was there when his dad was murdered. I want to ask what happened, but I can only process one worry at a time.

His vibe has substantially eased from murderous, seething black rage back to his usual insouciant arrogance, tinted with annoyance, yes, but nothing close to what was coming off of him earlier.

Swallowing my bile, I pick a question and ask it. Maybe if I’m talking I can’t barf.

“How did you find me so fast? I mean. How did you…know where we were last night?”

He sits up and rolls his shoulders before reaching out and tweaking my nose.

Playfully he tells me, “You made it way too easy, sweetheart. I’ll always find you.”

This is incredibly vague, but the plane tilts down and I grip the armrests and gasp, heart pounding. Everything but the knowledge I'm about to endure a gory, spectacular demise is forgotten as we hurtle to the earth way too fast to be humanly safe.

Ben watches, thoroughly amused, and I hang on for dear life until we roll to a stop.

The next hour or two is a whirlwind. It’s my first trip to Italy, my first trip anywhere, and I’m barely able to focus on anything but keeping my sunglasses in place as Ben leads me to a waiting car. As we ride through a small village to the outskirts of town, I scramble to remember the name of this place. Rose is going to quiz me about it next time we see each other.

 _Ahch-To._ It’s quaint but the air smells like the ocean at low tide. Like overripe seaweed, if that’s a thing. It's kind of gross. My stomach churns and I try to breathe through my mouth.

You would think what with my proximity to the filthy waters of the Hudson and unique Manhattan stench that actual fresh sea air would be a refreshing change of pace. Instead, I feel out of sorts, irritable. Annoyed.

Maybe I’m bothered by the fact that when I asked Ben where we were headed, he informed me we are going to be married and hinted if I give him any trouble over it one of my friends might suffer a terrible accident.

His casually-flung threat infuriates me, but when he goes on to bluntly remind me his father’s blood is on my hands, I shut up.

I _know_ it’s my fault. And worse, Ben is my only alibi, once again. If Han Solo is really dead and the last person seen in public with him was me, well, then I’m fucked. Probably even more so after the Canady allegations.

Bitterly, I remind Ben I’ve already agreed to marry him and there’s no need for him to be such a raging asshole. This only makes him laugh, the demented fuck, but he doesn’t speak another word until he’s dragged me none-too-gently into a tiny, ancient church.

Here, without any fanfare whatsoever, we’re married, me with an interpreter, as is required by law, since I don’t speak Italian, and Ben without one, since apparently, he knows enough Italian to get by. Whether he’s showing off or just being an ass, I neither know nor care.

I’m hungry and exhausted from sleeping on the plane. My head aches almost unbearably and I need to lie down.

The ceremony is quick, and I manage to glean enough from the conversation and the interpreter to figure out when to sign our license and what to say. After everything that’s happened over the past few days, this feels rather anticlimactic – not that I’m complaining – and I need to constantly remind myself to pay attention. This isn’t something that happens every day, getting married, even if it’s to the Devil himself, handsome though he is.

At the end, Ben slips a plain platinum band onto my finger, snug up against his grandmother’s diamond, and then he kisses me almost chastely. He pulls back too fast and when I follow his mouth with mine, hoping for more, the victorious gleam in his eye sends a spear of longing into my belly.

Despite everything, running into Kylo, nearly being raped, the murder charges, his lies about the painting, and even Bazine's mysterious warning, not to mention Ben’s behavior right before the party, I sense a bit of relief.

He actually fucking married me. I’m legally…like…a wife.

Nevertheless, I’m shutting down, foggy. Overwhelmed and coming down from whatever drugs I had in my system.

Ben seems to take pity on me and solicitously holds my hand on the drive back through town. I watch him with surreptitious bewilderment while he stares out the window and occasionally gives my hand a squeeze.

We are taken to the harbor and from here are escorted by six well-built security guards wearing body armor and bristling with guns. Ben tells me his defense team in Europe takes itself very seriously and only active-duty security personnel are permitted to openly carry weapons here. None of them smile at me or anyone, and they all possess flat, shark eyes that see everything.

If anyone is planning to kidnap me, they would certainly think twice with these dudes hovering around. My sense of relief expands, especially when I remember Kylo is maybe dead.

Every time I think about Kylo being gone, I am visited by the strangest…emptiness. Not relief, not really. Maybe it’s more of a distrust. Like I can’t believe it is actually over.

But Ben, in a toe-curlingly sexy display of chivalry, escorts me down the nearest dock to a huge white yacht that dwarfs every other boat in the vicinity by far. The soft splash of water against the pilings underfoot gently sways the weather-beaten boards, ever so slightly, and I eye the boarding ramp with trepidation.

This motion isn’t helping my hangover one bit.

Chef Pryde arrives at the dock at the same time, and I’m so rummy from exhaustion I can only manage a hazy smile. A servant in bright white shorts and a polo shirt catches my eye. He’s holding a tray with two very festive drinks on it.

Ben declines but murmurs to me, “You should try it, sweetheart. It’s an Italian soda. You’ll like it.”

Taking one of the chilled glasses, I mumble thanks to the server and am halfway through my first ever authentic Italian soda before I even think to question if it’s spiked with anything.

I don’t think it is, and honestly, I don’t care. It’s delicious, and I perk up slightly and drink the rest and enjoy the view while Ben and Pryde exchange a passing greeting. Pryde makes his way aboard ahead of us, and Ben is once again displaying the rare deference he reserves specifically for those artistic geniuses who manage to find themselves in his orbit.

The crew has lined up to greet us, and I have a fleeting impression of white and teak and flags flapping and blue water and overcast skies. The breeze kicks up and gray clouds scud by while numerous sea birds squawk endlessly.

Ben introduces me to the Captain and I immediately forget his name. I’m going to fall over soon from fatigue. Excusing my scatterbrained conduct, Ben mutters, “My wife was up all night and needs to rest.”

Jarred by his casual use of the term _wife_ , not to mention his ferociously possessive tones, I allow him to lead me inside. Now probably isn't the time to demand something to eat or yank my arm away in a show of independence.

But once inside, I pause at the extraordinary, opulent wealth on display. It’s more prevalent when condensed into this luxurious space, as if pure, distilled money makes everything gleam with a patent-leather shine.

I spy a baby grand piano in the living room and am led past a spotless dining room that looks as if it could comfortably seat eighteen guests or so. Ben takes me into a second lounge area and stops to show me a massive, well-lit painting in a temperature and humidity-controlled case. I’m guessing it must be pretty fucking valuable, especially after one of the security guys sweeps a sensor wand over it and positions himself nearby with his arms crossed.

Unmoved by this intimidating and, in my opinion impressive, demonstration, Ben mentions that in addition to the priceless art and a fully outfitted galley that rivals his gourmet kitchen back in New York, the yacht also boasts a swimming pool and two helicopter pads.

We step into a round, all-glass elevator that takes us straight into the owner’s suite. On the way up, he informs me the upper deck has a jacuzzi and there’s a sauna in the all-marble bathroom.

My brain is already overfull trying to catalog all of the amenities. I’ve stopped listening and am staring at the bed. It’s enormous and covered in off-white satin. Suddenly, I want to check behind the fluffy-soft pillows to see if Mitaka really managed to have those wrist restraints installed.

Everything is very glamorous and clean and shiny. I blurt out, “This is really nice.”

Ben must read my overwhelmed look when he tells me, “Baby, I think you should eat something. Take a shower and then I think you should lie down. I need to talk to the captain. Can I leave you alone for a bit?”

I'm pretty sure he's really asking if I can be trusted not to fuck with his fancy boat. Not that I should blame him for being suspicious, I suppose.

I spot a tray with little pastries on it and a pot of tea and some fruit and I want to cry when I realize how famished I am.

"Yes. I, um. Yes. Thank you."

He nods and leaves me to it.

I’m so hungry, I fall on that tray of food like a hungry she-wolf. It’s all so delicious, so perfectly made, so… _lovely_ , a tear or two falls down my cheek. I eat every crumb, uncaring if I'm gorging and that it isn't ladylike. 

I just…can’t believe this is my life, now. The bed looks divine, and I can’t decide if I want to hop on it like a child or curl under a blanket and sleep for a million years.

Remembering my earlier thought, I jump up and toss the pillows back. Sure enough, Mitaka did as ordered.

I’m tempted to try to remove the wrist restraints from the headboard, but I don’t have any tools. They look pretty secure.

I can snoop around after a shower, I think, planning to rush. On the way into the bathroom, I don’t miss several gorgeous suitcases stacked near the closet. I peek inside and it’s nearly as large as the one in Ben’s penthouse back in New York.

Our penthouse, I mean. Nausea rolls through me. I'm fucking married. 

Oh, shit. I have no idea what to do and I'm so far out of my element, true fear grips me. Not the kind I felt last night. But fear of the unknown, a fear of the world I've agreed to be a part of.

Kind of a "what the fuck did I get myself into" sort of fear.

It eases a little when I strip and step into the walk-in shower. Everything is so nice, I forget myself and spend way too much time in there.

But Ben is waiting for me in the bedroom by the time I come out and my fear returns ten-fold. Even though I’m wrapped in soft, warm, luxurious towels, I feel suddenly uncomfortable, unsure.

Like an imposter.

I stand there dripping and he’s poking through one of the suitcases he's opened.

"We'll have to do our own unpacking since everything was so last minute," he informs me. My eyes travel nervously to the bed and the pillows scattered everywhere. And those restraints, now glaringly visible.

He sees and shoots me a forbidding smirk, so I swallow my pride in a belated attempt to mitigate some of the strain between us. Particularly in the presence of those wrist restraints.

On impulse, I skip full speed across the thick carpeting until he has no choice but to catch me and pull me onto my tiptoes. I kiss him, right on the little cut on his lip.

“I just wanted to say…I’m sorry for…for that.” I nod at his split lip and his tongue pokes out to touch it, briefly. “And…for everything else.”

His smile turns indulgent. 

“It’s all right. I'm sorry, too. Besides, I already said I’d punish you later, princess. But we need some sleep, first, I think. Don’t you?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He can see right through me so I don’t bother to hide what I’m doing.

And instead of my obvious attempt at manipulation enraging him, like I half expect it might, he just gives me a smoldering grin and flips me onto the bed. I can feel the boat moving.

Despite my new fears cropping up about being out in the sea - almost as scary as flying - I hold out my arms. Ben crawls close, looming over me, his breath hot on my neck as he purrs an approving, “I like it when you’re a good girl.”

I pull him to me and to my surprise, he rolls to the side and tucks himself around me, wedging a knee between my legs and threading his hands into mine, locking his arms around me tight.

Eventually, he relaxes. We fall asleep like this, me thinking about everything he told me and him holding me until our breathing synchronizes and I think he’s asleep. 

_You’ll never punish me, Daddy. Not if I can wrap you around my finger this easily._

I wake up and the skylight over the bed reflects only shadows. It’s an overcast night, interrupted by an occasional glimpse of the moon. The bedroom is lit around the edges, though, and I can barely make out Ben in the dark.

We must have slept for hours and hours and I have no idea what time it is. Only when I move to sit up do I discover I can’t. My wrists are bound.

“You awake yet, baby?”

“I’m thirsty.” I sound petulant, but I can’t help it. Fucker chained me down anyway. 

“You can have some water in a minute.”

Annoyed, I lie there, refusing to make a scene, which I'm sure he'd love.

Dammit. I was sure he’d lighten up if I give him what he wants, show him I can be nice. Lying here, I can vaguely make out his movements. He’s still dressed, it looks like.

I, however, am not.

“Ben. What happened to my necklace?”

I've just now remembered I was wearing it last night, before. _Before_.

“Don't worry about it.”

Something sinister whooshes through the air at the foot of the bed, and I hold myself immobile until I figure out what it is.

_That fucking riding crop._

His promise of punishment comes back in full force and I peer into the dark, squinting as if I will magically be able to see if only I try hard enough.

My eyesight adjusts to the dim light. His back is turned to me and he takes a few more practice swings with the crop.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” he reports with too much satisfaction in his voice. “Mitaka knows his shit.”

I nearly jump out of my skin when he strikes the edge of the bed a few times, honing his aim or the force behind each blow or I don’t fucking know what, until it makes a particularly unnerving _crack_.

“Like riding a bike,” he grunts. “You never forget.”

Frantically, I try to remember the rest of that shit on that little impromptu laundry list back on the plane.

“What’s the honey for?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

I squirm and twist my wrists against the hard leather restraining them, wondering if I do somehow manage to get loose how fast I can hurtle off the bed and out the door.

Yeah, I don’t have a fucking snowball’s chance in hell. I’m pretty sure if I try to run, it will trigger his natural predatory response and he’ll happily chase me down.

He moves away and the lights brighten, making me blink at the sudden change. I can see him now, across the room, sliding the switch around until he deems the illumination to be satisfactory.

Almost jauntily, he sets down the crop only to pick up a pair of safety shears. I definitely recall him asking for those and he gives me a wicked leer. My blood runs cold.

“Now these,” he snips them open and closed a few times and they make a terrifying metallic sing as they bite into the empty air, “could take off a finger.”

He strokes the blunt tip of the shears up the bottom of my bare foot.

“Or a toe.”

Unnerved, I growl a warbly, “Ben. Stop it.”

“You’d better make sure I don’t lose my temper.”

And then he opens the scissors and holds the crux of the blades over my baby toe.

“Say, ‘Please, Daddy, let me keep my toe.’”

A curse dies on my lips when I discover I have no idea if he’s being serious or not.

I’ve never really appreciated it before, how very much I like my toes.

I’ve never really appreciated the fathomless depths of his resolve.

I try to gasp out a _please_ , anything, but there’s no air. My mouth is dry. Nothing else exists but those shears and Ben’s will.

I stare at him, lips quivering a silent plea and he stares back, unreadable.

“If you’re going to lose control of your bladder, I’d prefer if you do it on the floor and not the bed.”

This riles me, but I wait until he moves those fucking shears away before I give him a breathless, “Fuck you.”

A rather malevolent glint lights his eyes and he gives the scissors a few more threatening snips before turning back to the assorted toys he's arranged on the bench.

Lifting one of the ball gags, he examines it, occasionally peeking at me while he fiddles with the odd-looking device, learning the straps and snaps to adjust it.

Maybe I can bluster my way out like I did last night. He's like a dog, I tell myself. They only respond to authority.

“I’m not wearing that,” I say firmly. “Or any of that other stuff.”

He chuckles. “You’ll wear whatever I fucking put on you, baby whore. Or in you.”

“I already married you. There’s no need for…whatever all this drama is.”

“Oh, there’s a need,” he replies easily. “I should have recalled the first thing Nona ever taught me. _Caveat emptor._ Do you know what that means?”

“Um.” I rack my brain for a minute. “Buyer beware?”

“Very good, sweetheart. You’re a smart little thing, you know that? Too smart for your own good, I think.”

My mind is spinning and I can’t take my eyes off him. He picks up a jar. The honey. My stomach lets out an awkward rumble when I see it. I’m hungry.

I can feel my face turn red, although I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I've hardly eaten anything all day. This is all his fucking fault.

He’s hardly fed me a goddamned thing since we got here.

Jaw clenched, I bite out, “I already said I was sorry. Now you're just being a jerk. Let me go.”

“I know. I'm a jerk. This is all my fault.” My heart leaps into my throat. He’s too calm, too controlled. “I miscalculated, is all. Thought you would be a simple fixer-upper,” he muses. “But you're really more a full demolition project.”

Cranking the lid of the jar open, he sets it on the nightstand and picks up a different gag. This one is more of a bar than a ball. Frantically I try to remember what he called it on the phone. As if it makes a difference for me to know the name of it.

_Bit gag. That’s the bit gag._

He sets the bit gag next to my head, a deliberate taunt since I can’t do a damned thing about it. My stomach starts to squirm and I tug against the restraints again.

He’s pacing. And unbuttoning his shirt.

I don’t want to do whatever he’s planning. I want to eat some more of those pastry things I had earlier and go back to sleep and–

When he pulls his shirt away I can’t help it, I cannot fucking stop from admiring those corded muscles that so easily outstrip my own strength. His pectorals flex and ripple and I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose because he knows I’m checking him out.

Climbing onto the bed, he wedges a knee between mine and pries my legs apart. I heave my body, trying to dislodge him, and I never see the slap coming. Instant tears spring into my eyes. My face hurts.

Watching with an almost detached interest, he gives me another smack, harder this time, and the tears leak freely down my cheeks.

But I still myself. He hovers and all I can think is I would rather have him here, slapping me across the face than over there, going for those shears or that riding crop.

I’m fucking riveted on him and he is on me. We’re like magnets, glued to each other by an invisible force.

“You fucked up, baby girl. It almost cost your life. Don’t act like you don’t have this coming."

"Ben, you-"

"You need to learn how to behave.”

“Why?” _Why are you doing this? Why do you care?_

“There are worse monsters than me out there, Rey. And I need to make sure you understand there’s only one way to hold them off. It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

He draws a finger through the wetness on my cheek and touches the damp tip to my mouth.

“You know I love you.” He’s never actually said it before, that four-letter word. My world sort of crashes to a halt.

I know it’s fucking sick, but I want to believe him. With every fiber of my heart and soul. My face is still wet with tears. If I trust him and he’s lying, it will kill me.

And there's no way I can trust him, ever.

He’s a liar, proven time and again.

“You don’t know anything about love,” I whisper. "Only money.”

Anger bleeds through his carefully-contrived illusion of control and for the briefest second I can feel it, burning hot, just under the surface, the kind of volcanic rage that annihilates everything in its path.

“Money is worthless to people like us,” he snarls as I shake my head in disagreement. His hand bites into my jaw, holding me still, forcing me to look, to see. “It’s true. The real currency in this world is power. And secrets. And following the rules. And since you can't seem to stop getting yourself into dangerous fucking trouble and getting people fucking killed, then it's only obvious I have to do the thinking for both of us.”

“I didn’t mean to!” I sob. He’s angry about his father. Of course he is. Even if the man was a vile piece of shit, he was Ben’s family.

“It doesn’t matter what you meant. What matters is what happened. So now I’m going to hurt you. Badly. And then I’m going to make you come.”

I twist and struggle again, but he rolls away, and _fuck_ , he’s going for something on that bench.

 _Fuck_. Not the shears again.

I’m shivering and starting to sweat, and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

“You can fight me all you want. I’ll admit it makes me hard just thinking about it.”

“Ben. Please.”

But he’s already lost, gone into that trance-like state he gets into sometimes. He’ll drag me along with him soon enough, he always does. But I don't want to go. Not this time. 

He's going to hurt me. Really hurt me. I think my fight or flight response is kicking in. My ears are buzzing.

He eyes me up and down like I'm a piece of meat, and I involuntarily jerk against the wrist restraints in a futile attempt to cover myself.

“Ben. I’ll be good. I…wasn’t thinking right, before. I know, now. I was wrong. It was stupid to run away.”

This plea does nothing and a chill snakes across my skin. He’s really not letting up. He really means it.

“Yes. It was stupid.” He unbuckles his belt and I wonder if I'll be able to kick him. “You just need a teacher.”

“A teacher for what?” I'm only half-listening, trying to figure out an escape. 

“How to eat. How to speak. How to walk. How to sit. How to dress. How to tell the difference between a Kenobi and a Palpatine.” He sets the shears to the other side of my head and I whimper. “And most importantly, how to keep your eyes trained on me and nothing else. You’ll never make it in this world if you carry on as you have been.”

I'm so fixated on the placement of those shears, I don't even try to fight him when he settles himself on top of me.

He’s warm and heavy and making it hard to breathe.

“I already tried to explain things the nice way," he croons, almost apologetically. "Already tried to make you understand. You don’t need to think. All you need to do is spread your legs and listen to Daddy.”

His gaze crawls over my face and he plants a fist on either side of my ribs, leaning close enough for me to see the varied striations of brown and amber and green in his eyes. Pretty eyes. “I don’t care if it takes a week or a month or even a year. I’ve got nothing but time and you’ve got nothing but me. We’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“It _won’t_ happen again! I’ll be good,” I insist. “You just have to give me a chance.”

“ _Shhh_. Daddy’s talking, sweetheart. Don’t interrupt.”

I seal my lips shut and glare at him with impotent fury. Or fear.

Or naked fucking terror.

The part of me not frozen with dread is hypnotized, fascinated by how pretty he is, by that traitorous little piece of me that wants him, wants to be good for him. He keeps talking, punctuating his words with wet kisses along my collarbone.

“Your first lesson. When you're rich you can have either vulgar taste or deplorable manners but never both. My father had both and look how he turned out.”

His tongue slides around my ear and warmth unfurls in my belly.

“And since you already have the most vulgar taste I’ve ever seen, well, on par with my father's at least, we’ll have to make sure your manners are pristine, instead.”

I’m trying to decipher what he means exactly, and if he really just insulted my sense of taste – which stings, even if he’s right – but he grinds his hips between my legs and chuckles again.

“You’re such a kinky little thing and you have no idea, do you?”

“Let me loose, Ben. And I’ll do whatever you want. I swear.”

“You _will_ do whatever I want," he agrees silkily. "A toy doesn’t get to decide how it gets played with. A fucktoy doesn’t get to say when it gets fucked.”

His gentle tones throw me off. I try to convince myself there’s no way he’s actually going to hurt me. I try to calm my racing heart. 

_Manners. He just wants to teach me some manners. That's not so bad._

I truly believe this until he pulls back and sits up, straddling my waist and holding the safety shears two inches from my nose.

He gives them a few pointed snips and arches a brow.

“Now. You can open up like a good girl and take whatever I put in your mouth. Or you can lose a toe. You choose, sweetie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I JUST posted a chapter, but this one was pretty much already written and I figured fuck it, I'll surprise you because I love you all so damn much. 
> 
> Thoroughly enjoyed your reactions to the last chapter and I'm SUPER looking forward to getting the next chapter out soon........all aboard the _S.S. S &M_ for the Creep Cruise...........and whatever holidays you celebrate this time of year (if any), I hope they are happy and safe and full of love.
> 
> xoxoxo...............


	27. punish

# punish

_You choose, sweetie._

For a millisecond, I wonder if he’ll do it, chop off my toe with those fucking safety shears.

Something else scrubs at the back of my mind, an incessant alert. Something dangerous.

But not as dangerous as what's happening right here and now.

_Fucking pay attention._

_Don’t make a sound._

He’s watching me as he does sometimes. Like he’s waiting, although for what, I don’t know.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

He seems so mystified, and I frantically try to understand the question.

I’m not sure what frightens me more, the question he just asked or why he seems so desperate for me to know the answer.

Clearly, he’s disappointed and my stomach swoops with intense dread.

I wonder if I should try to say something but the moment passes and he utters, “Say, ahhh.”

_You choose._

Mechanically, I open my mouth and everything else shuts down. Nothing matters but the way he dips his finger into the open jar of honey and smears some on the bit gag. His earlier bewilderment evaporates and he grins as if he’s having the time of his life, and he's as charming and devilishly handsome as ever.

Some of the sticky-sweet nectar drips over my chin and my neck, but I don’t relax or move my eyes from his until he pushes his finger into my mouth.

"Lick it up, whore."

I suck the honey away. He’s warm and his finger is gentle and blunt. I run my tongue over the pad and swirl it over his manicured nail.

Once I’ve finished, he dips his head, and his warm, wet tongue strokes over my neck and chin where the honey dripped. When he kisses my mouth, his breath tastes sweet. I open and let him slide his tongue over mine, too afraid to try to hurt him and too fascinated to turn away. His breathing grows more intense and here in the darkness, I pretend he wasn’t lying when he said he loved me.

Something hot and wicked uncoils in my belly when his thumb brushes over my bottom lip, coaxing my mouth open again.

“This is gonna make you slobber like a dog,” he murmurs fondly.

I have a million questions, but he’s setting the bit between my teeth and I squirm under his weight as he leans in to secure it to my head. A few tugs later and I’m gagged.

It’s not terrible, though I have a feeling the ball gags are much less comfortable.

I tell myself he had no intention at all of chopping off my toe and I relax, just a touch.

This isn’t so bad.

He’s very careful to make sure my hair isn’t caught in the straps and he takes an extra second or two to adjust the pillow under my head. Despite this, or maybe because of it, I’m forced to concentrate on nothing but him.

“Comfortable?” he purrs.

_Not really._

I try to say as much around the silicone bar in my mouth, but my jaw tingles and aches as my salivary glands are kicked into overdrive from the honey.

I want to ask why he wants me drooling, but he climbs off the bed and casually tells me, “It’s been a while since I’ve played with a riding crop. Never thought of myself as terribly kinky. Not like you.”

_I’m kinky?_

I shake my head in disagreement, tonguing the bit between my teeth and doing my best not to slobber since it’s what he wants. I’m getting suspicious.

I’m nervous as fucking hell, to be honest.

I’m sort of glad my stomach is empty, though. If I throw up now, that would be disastrous. The shears sit just within sight, inches away from my fingertips if I stretch. They might as well be on the moon since I can’t reach a damned thing.

“I didn’t want to have to take things this far.”

My heart starts pumping. Hard.

_This far? What does he mean?_

He’s talking and I should be listening, but with his body heat gone, I’m getting cold. I can feel goosebumps rise over my skin and my nipples grow taut.

The wicked slice of the riding crop cutting through the air freezes me.

_You choose, sweetie._

Something tickles over the tops of my thighs. He’s drawing the tip of the crop over my skin. Trying to unnerve me.

He said he was going to hurt me.

“You scared?”

I nod and grunt a “yes” that comes out more as “egth” because I _am_ scared. I don’t care if he knows it, if he wants to turn me into a groveling mess, then fine. Just so long as he keeps those fucking shears away from my feet.

“I was scared, too.” His voice turns as hard and smooth as cold-rolled steel. “When I had to drag my father off of your unconscious body.”

Anxiety spills into my veins and I cough and moan around the gag.

“He had your underwear down around your knees,” he muses, teasing the riding crop along the inside of my thigh. “That was pretty fucking scary.”

The words come out calm. Measured. But I can tell. He’s fucking furious.

He undoes the restraints at my wrists and picks up the shears. My eyes drift to the exit, and he reads my goddamn mind.

“You just try to run, and I’ll take more than a toe when I catch you again.”

I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. He strokes the blunt tip of his shears down my cheek and lifts a brow.

“Better if you just stay right fucking there.”

I freeze and my pulse echoes in my ears with a horrible thud. I’d fucking freeze that, too, if I could.

He moves away and returns a minute later with a long bar with two sets of cuffs attached to either end.

_One locking ankle-spreader, doggy-style._

Every last molecule of oxygen escapes me in a rush when he flips me like a pancake. I shouldn’t fight him in the mood he’s in, but the infection of fear is only spreading, so I kick out reflexively when he locks my ankles into the bar’s restraints.

This does nothing but make him grip me harder. I’m already a quivering, drooling mess of anxiety, and he’s not even breathing hard when he jerks my arms down to either side and into place with brutal efficiency.

I can’t even beg for mercy, not that I can find any whatsoever in this room.

All too soon, my wrists are trapped, one to the outside of each ankle. This position is humiliating as fuck and I’m instantly uncomfortable at how exposed I am. As if to emphasize this, he gives me a few swats on the butt with the palm of his hand.

It doesn’t hurt and this only makes the tension worse, somehow.

He smooths a hand over my hips and around the front of me, and it does nothing to calm the quivering anticipation racing through me like wildfire.

“This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you, baby.”

Somehow, I don’t fucking think so. Not that I can argue.

Now I’m face-down and the suspense is exquisite. I can’t help but tense every muscle as that crop whistles down and bites into my right ass cheek like a wasp sting.

I buck and clench and squeal.

“That hurt. Didn’t it?”

It takes my breath away. _Asshole,_ I grunt and drool leaks out from around the gag.

Yeah. It fucking hurt.

“It hurts me, too, princess,” he assures me, the depraved son of a bitch. “It’s fucking tearing me apart.”

I twist my head around and glare.

He chuckles and I want to murder him. I’m actually contemplating just how I’m going to do it - slowly and painfully - when the crop whistles down again, right next to where it struck before.

Blinding, searing pain makes me jump.

“I wonder if that hurt as much as it hurt to have to put my father down like a rabid dog?”

_…killed in a mugging under the Hell Gate Bridge. I suspect his body will be found by morning._

The crop snaps down again, harder this time.

I can’t breathe. He did it himself, then. Oh, fuck.

I don't think he's lying about this.

Fuck, he actually killed him.

There’s something else, too, something picking insistently at the edges of my skull and I need to figure it out.

But that riding crop bites into me again, harder yet, and my teeth sink into silicone.

“Does it hurt?" he snarls. "Does it hurt the way it did…when I had to check…to make sure my dad didn’t…fucking…rape…my fucking…fiancée?”

Every word is punctuated with a vicious strike and I cringe and squeal, trying vainly to flinch away from that relentless crop. I can’t move, and I start to panic, truly panic.

He sounds cold. Cruel and dangerously pissed off. I’m crying and twitching.

He’s only whipped me a handful of times and I’m already blubbering and getting snot and tears and drool all over the pillow.

“Control your breathing. This is nothing. _Nothing_ compared to what I’d have done if he’d actually managed it.”

No, he’s not cold at all. White-hot fury is boiling out of him.

“I’m just getting warmed up, baby. This’ll go easier if you breathe through your nose.”

That crop lashes down, and just when I think I can't take anymore, he stops and runs a hand over my butt. My skin feels like it’s literally burning. I’m so sensitive to touch that even Ben’s feather-soft caresses are making me tremble and sob and snort. It's un-fucking-dignified.

But every time he pauses, it’s only for a minute.

_I’m going to hurt you._

_Badly._

_And then I’m going to make you come._

“I should have known better than to leave you alone.” 

The sinister whisper of the crop singing through the air makes me cringe and I’d fucking beg if I could talk.

“You’re exactly the sort of girl he’d go after. Pretty. Undisciplined. Wild. Young.”

He’s shifted position, striking with surgical precision and now the hurt transcends everything.

“Mother always said I was _just_ like him. I wonder if you can imagine how _that_ made me feel?”

_You already know, deep down. Who I am._

Terrifying pain creeps around the corners of my mind, like the spectral claws of a demon crawling in. I would literally do anything to escape and since I can’t escape, I can only give in to it.

I realize it will stop when he decides it should stop, and not a second sooner, the monster. And for a few eternal moments, it’s just us, tied to each other on a string of pain. Me shivering and squealing and biting down into that foul silicone bit every time he strikes, floating outside my own body, him wielding retribution until I can’t even cry anymore. And it’s here on the brink of agony, where I find true silence, the kind I haven’t sunk into since I was a child, where I almost see it again.

He stops, and I hear his ragged breathing in time with my own.

 _I must be bleeding all over the sheets_ , I think frantically. It hurts enough. Feels like he's cut into the bone.

“Those welts look tender.”

I’m so fucking thankful he’s stopped, I can’t even be all that mad at him.

There’ll be plenty of time for anger. Later.

I think he's stripping the rest of his clothes away. For now, he’s moving around over by the bench where all of his toys are laid out, minus the shears. 

Fresh fear sinks in because I have no idea where they are, and I heave violently against the pillows, trying to inch my way farther away from him and whatever he’s planning next. 

It’s stupid of me, and a total waste of effort. He only uses the bar to drag me back, this time far enough that my feet dangle over the edge of the bed. I hear the distinct snap of rubber and the wet-sounding splurt of lube and half a second later a cold wetness pushes against my asshole, in stark contrast to the burning heat of the stripes he’s raised over my butt and thighs.

I can only hear my own wretched breathing and sniffling and the obscene wet noises he makes as he fingers me. I bear down and try to squeeze my cheeks together, trying to stop him or push him away, only I can’t. He just adds more lube and works a second finger in, stretching me out until a different kind of burn impales me.

“Filthy girl,” he mutters. “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

I want to shout, but I can’t and if I don't pay attention I'm afraid I'll suffocate. With each of my wrists trapped at my ankles, all I can do is wiggle my hips from side to side, hoping if I work up enough momentum, I’ll be able to roll and delay the inevitable.

He only clamps a fist over my hip and locks me in place, and I can feel the blunt head of his erection prodding at me.

“You’re wondering what happens next. Aren’t you? Terrified I’ll hurt you again? Or…are you more afraid I’ll leave you all alone?” His voice is pitched low to match the darkness and since I can’t speak, I clench down a little, until his grip tightens and he gasps, so softly I think he doesn’t want me to hear.

When he takes me, almost gently, some sick part of me wishes he would fuck my pussy, instead.

This thought is too fucking much to process, how badly I want him in my cunt, and I grunt like an animal as drool streams freely out my mouth.

Flexing is the only way I can communicate, and I want to hear him again, that naughty, dirty sound he made. I want to know if he's as caught up in this as I am. He pulls back and shoves inside with a bit more force, working his way in with a few rough thrusts until his hips bump against my tender bottom and make me lurch away from the impact.

“You wanna clench on me, then let’s make you _really_ clench.”

He palms my ass and slaps me, and normally I wouldn’t even feel it, but on top of those riding crop welts, fresh agony shoots all the way to the bottoms of my feet and I screech against the gag and flex until he chokes out a filthy groan.

"Whore." 

I clench again when he spanks me again, and he grunts and yanks on my hair until my neck is contorted back. If he pulls any harder, I think my spine will snap in half.

The gag is doing its job and I can’t fucking breathe enough air, but he's lost, pounding harder, holding my hips and fucking me with such gut-wrenching sighs it’s making me wet, despite the pain.

“You still think…you’re in control. That’s a mistake,” he hisses.

The light slap of his balls against my pussy reminds me I want him _there_ and he promised he would make me come.

“…you don’t want me here, do you?”

I shake my head.

“Do you?”

I whimper and my eyes nearly cross when he spanks me again.

“Don’t lie to Daddy.”

I sob and wail. It's muffled, but if I could talk, I’d say whatever the fuck he wants. Anything.

But I can’t talk, and he’s not going to stop. My breath comes harder. I try to remind myself he can’t last like this forever, but every time I start to have a coherent thought, he slaps my ass and I predictably buck and keen into the silicone gagging me.

“You’re drooling everywhere,” he remarks, panting and spanking me again until I squeal and tighten around him. “Like a little bitch. Humbling, isn’t it? Maybe close to how I felt? When I had to explain to my mother how you ran off with her husband?”

A reluctant garbled _I’m sorry!_ comes out around the gag.

“How the fuck am I supposed to get over that, I wonder?”

I don’t fucking know but I’m starting to ache in places I didn’t know I had. Finally, he pulls out and I hear the familiar sound of a condom snapping off and he slams between my legs without warning.

“Fuck!” 

_Fuck._

“You…nasty…little… _slut_. Disgusting whore.”

But he doesn’t sound disgusted at all, not when he strokes me hard and firm and his hand snakes around to toy with my clit until blinding white light flashes behind my eyes. Everything in me finally, _finally_ compresses around him, clinging. I don’t want him to leave.

We find a rhythm together and if I can’t move, I can feel. I can arch my spine and take him and grip him and wish with all my heart he’ll stay right where he is, pressed into the deepest part of me.

The sting from the riding crop fades and euphoria overtakes me, a pulsing, living, moving ecstasy. I know he feels it too, and even though I’m the one who’s gagged, he’s the quiet one, for once.

He hovers closer and I feel his skin rubbing against mine, sweat-slicked and hot, the warm push of his body intruding into my sore flesh. He moves in me and the world ceases to exist.

I can’t breathe. I don’t care.

I can’t see. It doesn’t matter.

His fingers find my clit, swollen and sensitive, and massage me faster, _more_ , until that warm throbbing tingling starts seeping outward, trickling along my spine and pussy and thighs and hot rippling bliss works its way over my skin and I can almost touch it. I chase it down and pleasure rips through me in waves and I hold on with everything I have, biting down hard as every part of me convulses and contracts and yields against the heated push and pull of his flesh in mine.

He shifts and I know I shouldn't, but I want more. I can’t breathe. There’s no room for air.

Only him.

“You come yet? No?” He’s still fucking me and he doesn’t sound human anymore. He’s the devil and I’m his creature, and I can’t fucking stop.

And he shoves in deeper until it hurts. I can feel him, pounding insistently, taking everything.

“More,” he grinds out. “God, you’re such a whore for me, aren’t you?”

A few soft expletives fall from his lips, and whether the words are benedictions or curses, I neither know nor care. He crushes his palm low on my belly and hard, as if he’s trying to squish us together and mash us into one, inside and out. Until we can’t be separated and he’s dissolving himself in me and I’m soaking him up, and it feels so fucking good I give in and come until I collapse and the only thing anchoring me to this world is him.

Some vague part of me feels him quaking and a hot sticky flood seeps between my legs. I can’t breathe until he finishes, shuddering against me with a few prolonged growls. He plants a sweaty kiss on the back of my neck.

And I fucking love it. I want another and another and when he slips out of me, I whine and clench my thighs together, trying to keep him where he was.

But even as he pulls out, he shoves his fingers in and the friction is enough to make me melt. Shaky, messy aftershocks force me to twitch against him while he pants and gasps and whispers nonsensical encouragement and violently fucks me with his fingers until I’m as limp as a wet rag.

I try to listen, try to breathe while he fumbles at the cuffs on the spreader bar to set me loose. My shoulders ache and every muscle I have seizes up. He crawls close and touches the strap around my face

“This next one’s gonna hurt,” he breathes against my hair. “And maybe the one after that, too. But I promise I’m not done until I’m dead sure you understand. I fucking own you.”

I can’t breathe and I need air. Panicking, I cry again and to my surprise, he hurries to unfasten the gag.

“Rey. It’s all right. Hang on.”

After what he just did to me, I should probably try to run out the door, but I crumple into the bedcovers, instead.

It’s wet with drool and cum and lube and I don’t care if it’s gross. I curl into a shivering ball and wait for him to tell me what to do next.

I don’t need to do anything. He promptly scoops me into his arms and carries me to the bathroom and he sounds almost sorry when he pronounces, “You’ll be all right.”

But I don't think I will be all right.

Shifting me, he yanks a few towels from the rack and lays them over the gold-veined marble vanity. Here, he sets me down, but my reaction is instant and I squeak a pained “ow!” so he lifts me again and props me over the towels face-down, instead.

I can’t even sit and this makes me unreasonably upset. A tear or two spills down my face and it’s ridiculous, maybe, that I’m on this mega-luxury-yacht, surrounded by every conceivable comfort, and I’m sniveling about something so stupid.

Because my husband just blistered my ass for running away from him.

_He killed…_

I don’t want to think about the rest of it, don’t want to revisit the tormented anguish in his voice when he told me what happened after he found me.

“I didn’t even break the skin. Stop being so dramatic,” he chides. He sounds too affectionate and rather pleased with himself, and I sniff until he wipes my nose with a tissue, scowling all the while.

I can’t talk right now, but I don’t need to. Once he’s assured I’m not going to slide to the floor, he moves away and starts the steam shower. I’m not sure I can stand on my own, and another tear streams down my face. I refuse to look in the mirror while I try to pull myself together.

If I’m all broken and fucked up, then it’s his fault.

His face may as well be carved from the same marble as the vanity, for all I can read of his expression. But when he lifts me again, a rush of dopamine pours straight into my bloodstream.

I can’t explain it.

I could literally go back into that bedroom and let him do all of that to me again, without hesitation.

So long as I get to have this in exchange.

He steps into the shower and the hot water on my backside stings. I flinch and cling to his broad shoulders, and he holds me under the spray, steady as a rock.

I can’t talk. I don’t need to.

The water rinses over me, and under the steamy spray, my bones grow limp, weak.

He holds me like this until I can feel his arms shaking with fatigue, and I reluctantly slide to my feet. I can stand, so long as he’s here to prop me up.

Cautiously, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek against the slab of muscle over his heart.

“You cry if you need to,” he coos, petting my hair.

Water drips everywhere, but it’s warm. When he strokes my back with such tenderness, I start to sob in earnest.

My mouth hurts. My throat hurts. My butt hurts.

I’m not going to be able to sit for days.

My own damn fault.

I let this tidbit sink in and eventually, we move from the shower to the bedroom again.

Someone came in and changed the sheets while we were in the shower. There’s a tray of food on the bench and an ice bucket with a stack of soft-looking towels nearby.

For once, I’m not hungry.

My breath hitches and horrible hot sobs rise up out of me before I can stop them or figure out why I’m such a mess.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been.

Ben picks at a few things on the tray and unwraps a popsicle. My favorite kind. A reluctant smile crosses my face at the sight of him. He’s too handsome with his wet hair and towel wrapped around his hips as he offers the popsicle to me as gravely as he offered my wedding ring.

Still, I can’t help but ask, eyeballing that riding crop and the ball gags back in position beside the tray, “You’re n-n-not really going to do that again, are you?”

“Oh, yes. At least a few more times. Until I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

He’s looking far too serious, even when he winks and gestures to the bed with the popsicle, and something odd twists around my heart.

It strikes me that I married this beast, promising in two whole different languages to love him until death do us part.

He said he loved me.

I think maybe I can understand why he was so furious.

No amount of begging or pleading is going to get me out of whatever is coming, and he confirms it when he murmurs gently, “You need to learn you have me now. You can’t just go off on your own anymore.”

“I was so scared,” I sniff. His father…in the back of that limo. I remember I was terrified before everything went black.

“I was scared, too.”

This stony pronouncement sends me over the edge with guilt and I start sobbing again.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper pathetically. It’s not even close to being enough. Somehow the idea of Ben drugging me and fucking me in my sleep isn’t nearly as awful as those brief, slimy memories of his father touching me.

With infinite patience, he gathers me close and holds me until I’m done. It’s heaven to have those strong arms buffering me from the world. After my sobs turn once again to sniffles, he scoops me under the knees and carries me to the bed where the covers have been turned down and fresh sheets await.

I don’t want to let go, but he lays me on my side and threads his fingers through my hair, and strokes my cheek and ear with his thumb.

"You just need to learn, is all." This makes me bawl into the pillow, half-reveling in his gentle attentions, half-wishing he would fuck me until I’m a bloody, unconscious wreck.

“Why am I like this?” I sputter after an indeterminate time. “It’s not _normal_. There’s something wrong with me.”

A tentative touch skates along my spine. He moves away to the bench and I whip my head around to watch, warily making sure he’s not going for that riding crop again.

He only brings back the popsicle and drags my arm out from under the sheet to set the damned thing in my hand. I roll onto my stomach and prop on my elbows while he runs a chilled cloth over my butt, easing the sting. For a few minutes, we linger in silence, me licking halfheartedly at my popsicle, him uncharacteristically quiet as he soothes the cloth over me.

The sheets are unbelievably smooth and soft and warm and I want to burrow in them forever. But I don’t want to sleep and lose…whatever this moment is.

“Drink this,” he instructs, taking the popsicle stick when I'm finished. He holds up an insulated cup with a straw poking out. I don’t even fucking care what it is, or if, as I suspect, it has something in it to knock me out.

_My own concoction. I call it night-night juice._

He glowers as if he’s reading my thoughts and, when I hesitate, insists, “All the way. You’re not going anywhere, and I’m fucking exhausted.”

Dutifully, I obey his gruff command and another wave of sympathy crashes into my heart.

“I’m sorry. About your dad,” I tell him, meeting his eyes.

I mean. I’m not sorry that rapist piece of shit is dead, but I can’t imagine how Ben must be feeling. I open my mouth to ask about his mother, if she knows.

“Shhhhh. Drink.”

I suck on the straw and drink my smoothie. It’s cold and soothing and flavored of cherries and I slurp it down until the straw makes a mildly jarring racket against the bottom of the empty cup.

“Good girl.” His eyes glow with approval and a smile twitches the corners of my mouth. I catch a brief answering smile as he stands and dims the lights. “It’s no wonder you’re so emotional. All you’ve had to eat all day is sugar.”

“Were you really going to chop off my toe?” I ask tiredly.

For the first time in a full day, true humor tinges his voice. “Well, it was touch and go for a minute there. I _did_ have a doctor on call. Still do, as a matter of fact. So, you’d better not push it.”

Feeling much better, I snort, unafraid of the warning. “Where’d you learn how to use a riding crop?”

“Military reform school. Now, go to sleep, princess. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day for both of us.”

He sounds stern and forbidding again, and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Before I can decide, he shuffles me to the middle of the bed, spooning around me.

Gingerly, I snuggle against him, careful of my bruised backside. I wonder what he’s got planned for tomorrow, but I’m tired, too. Here in the hazy gray between waking and sleeping, I forget everything for a while except for the bliss of being his.

He came for me when nobody in my whole life ever has.

Ever.

If for nothing else, I could love him for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, can I just say I have never before in my life seen such a deep and strong reaction over a threat to a fictional toe. I’ve been chuckling over it for days. I know many of you were QUITE worried about it. The toe is safe for now, although we’d better hope Rey can keep her eyes on the prize this time. And by prize I mean she gets to keep all her cute little piggies attached.
> 
> The fact that any part of this story thrills or sickens or horrifies you is just a balm to my own depraved soul. I love knowing you’re biting your nails off or reading from under your fluffiest blanket or sweating or having nightmares or…any and all of it. 
> 
> Secondly. If I don’t update before the holidays, may you be safe, healthy, and happy wherever and whatever you celebrate, if at all. Remember you are loved, and as the world shifts and spins around us, know that someone out there is thinking of you. My Twitter is usually the easiest place to find me if you ever need to chat. It gets busy on there sometimes, so feel free to spam me if I miss a DM. 
> 
> While I ADORE your comments and read them all, multiple times, I will confess I am beyond backlogged on getting caught up on replies. But every word you give me is a little gift of light shining right onto my heart, so thank you for taking the time to share your reactions with me. 
> 
> Third. Not gonna lie, I’m a little offended that Ben’s confession of love in the last chapter was eclipsed by Toe Gate. *winks*
> 
> xoxoxo!


	28. revolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some tags have been added and may be triggering for some readers. While the tagged content will not appear until later chapters, I hope to provide enough advance warning that anyone who needs to stop reading now may choose to do so. 
> 
> I do extend my sincere apologies for adding these tags so late in the game. When I started this story, I wasn't sure we'd be drifting in this direction, but now it seems I have no choice and the Muse dictates all.
> 
> If you need to DM me on Twitter for more details so you can decide whether or not to continue, please feel free to do so. This should be the last of the really triggering tags I plan on adding.
> 
> Also, for those of you wondering WTF is going on with the chapter count, guys, I fucked up. There's no fucking way this is going to be finished in 4 chapters so I changed it back to "?" again. Super sorry about that.

# revolve

Turns out, I hate the honey more than just about anything.

He was right. It makes me drool and it’s degrading. And it makes an awful mess, which I’m sure the crew is gossiping about relentlessly, even if I’ve hardly seen any of them.

Despite his gentle, almost solicitous conduct in the hour or two after whipping my ass red the first time, he actually did follow through on his earlier vow. To fuck me into submission.

As he promised, it did hurt the next time, and the time after, too. But he ruthlessly and methodically laid down a series of new bruises and welts on top of the old ones, and after a few days of being manacled to that bed, something in me turned.

He was right when he said I have nothing but him.

And the after? The _after_ is worth the pain.

Because in the aftermath, I float. Nothing can touch me, not even him. He is a lovely satellite, true, even if he’s gruff in his gentleness. But he’s so very… _present_. Nothing can interrupt us, nothing else exists.

He sees me and I see him and sometimes he even shows me a hint of that core of darkness he holds so deep within himself, once even going as far as telling me about some of the goings-on he endured at military school.

For all his money, I think he’s been as lonely as I’ve been, if not more so.

He’s determined to teach me how to fit into his world, truly, and I think it’s because, like me, he is tired of being alone.

And so, he has made himself the Sun around which my universe revolves. But I am his, too, without a doubt.

We are binary stars in perfect gravitational balance, eternally dependent on the other. And just as he insists on performing every possible task of caring for me, he expects me to do the same for him.

To learn him, inside and out, memorize every pore and mole and scar, discover the way his hair parts and curls, even to study how much pressure to apply when I draw his razor over his cheeks. To know his preferences in dress and his tastes in food and wine and to understand them as surely as I understand my own.

Even if my own tastes are atrocious, according to him.

Eventually, I am allowed out of our rooms and Ben spends an inordinate amount of time scrubbing me down and combing my hair and brushing my teeth, and even trimming my fingernails. Today, it’s warm out, though not even close to hot, which makes sense because it’s winter.

He chooses a comfortable outfit for me since my ass has literally been blistered raw and still hurts like you wouldn’t believe. I button his shirt for him and slide his shoes onto his large, handsome feet.

On the way out the door, he snatches up his leg irons and my stomach churns a bit.

I know he’s planning to keep us chained together so I don’t, as he calls it, “pull another idiotic stunt like the last one” but I’m more worried about appearances.

“What will the crew think? Your guards?”

“They’ll think we are the kinkiest bastards they’ve ever seen and they’ll keep their goddamned mouths shut if they want to hold onto their jobs.”

He escorts me to the upper deck, so I can take in the view as we cruise the coast of Italy. Ben tells me we will sail around the peninsula and head north until we reach Genoa, where we’ll disembark and fly to Molsheim, France.

From there, we’ll shop for a car for me, and I’m stunned to learn he truly intends for me to have a Bugatti, despite everything, and he’s already called ahead and made a personal appointment for us to tour the facility. Then, we are to fly to the family chateau and vineyards in Naboo, where we will spend a brief visit with his grandmother.

This unnerves me like nothing else, as I sense a strong reluctance from him over this last bit. I’m not sure why, although the problem is esoteric and I think once my manners are a bit more refined, he’ll be more relaxed about it.

He’s settled in a large, cushioned lounge chair with me perched precariously on his lap. I balance my weight on my hip, since my butt still aches, and also because we’re chained at the ankle by those damned leg irons.

I know what he’s doing and why, but I haven’t found the will to resist him. Yet.

He’s proving a very interesting point.

_You need me. You don’t fucking breathe without me. You don’t fucking move without me._

If I try to argue this, he simply wrestles one of those damned gags into my mouth and fucks me until I cry. It’s a harsh lesson, but…

But.

Without fail, after he’s finished, he’s so tender and sweet, it’s intoxicating. This is what I need more than _anything_ and I don’t know _how_ he knows it, but he does. He knows just what to do to warp me into doing whatever he wants.

_Give me a smile, sweetheart. No? We’ll work on it._

I’m sick. Mentally, I mean.

I can’t stop wanting him. I can’t stop obsessing over him.

“Open.”

I open my mouth and he pops in a bite of fruit, flown in fresh every day along with our food and all of the floral arrangements on the ship.

And it’s really more of a ship than a boat. It’s enormous, and I was shocked to learn how many dozens of crew live onboard just to maintain the thing.

I’m guessing it takes quite a bit of work to keep the windows spotlessly clean, not to mention maintain the decks to a constant, immaculate state. Any scuffs on the fine teak are removed within minutes. Ben informs me it’s one person’s sole responsibility to monitor the swimming pool and jacuzzi and ensure the temperature and chemicals and lights are all properly kept so we might enjoy the amenities at a moment’s notice.

And the crew, they must know everything, _everything_ we do, because we hardly need to ask for a thing. I once asked Ben how they know when to send food and he tells me not to worry my pretty head over it.

But other than the occasional question, I don’t talk much.

Instead, I focus on him.

I can see where I missed a spot shaving him this morning and I tentatively stroke a finger over the small raspy patch of whiskers.

“I missed a spot, Daddy.” I keep my voice pitched low and half-apologetic. I’ve learned to tell him everything I’m thinking so he doesn’t have to drag it out of me.

“Open.”

I open my mouth again and this time, instead of a piece of fruit, I get a searing-hot kiss.

“You taste delicious,” he murmurs against my lips. His eyes are a golden-whiskey brown in the late morning light. It’s overcast today, but still warm, and we aren’t moving, so there isn’t too much wind.

His large palm slides over my hip and lightly squeezes and I try my very best to keep from wincing.

He says we need to work on my impulsivity and my overly emotional bent. I need to learn to control my facial expressions around others, he says, and one of the crew is nearby, polishing the chrome railing.

But when he squeezes harder and I flinch, the faintest line appears between his brows.

“I hope you’re not testing my patience today. We don’t want a repeat of yesterday, do we, baby girl?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I breathe. Nervousness writhes in my chest and I take a measured breath. I really _don’t_ want a repeat of yesterday’s lesson. He squeezes me again and I breathe through my nose and blink and smile and kiss him under the jaw.

He purrs wordless acknowledgment against my hair and I wait until the moment passes and his touch mellows again.

“We should probably do another round of ice on that naughty little behind of yours, hmm?”

_Yes. And maybe another round of painkillers, too._

However, I know better than to let my eagerness show for this possibility. Anything I want, he’ll give me. But he’ll inevitably turn it into a lesson and it’s exhausting.

Perhaps another day I’ll try his limits. But not today.

After he was so sensitive not to push me too far that first time, I really didn’t think he meant to follow through on his so-called _lessons_ , but despite his sweet side, he is still viciously angry with me. I can feel it, simmering just beneath the surface, although he is careful never to allow his perfect manners to slip in front of Pryde or Captain Krennic.

Otherwise, he’s a complete sadist, and I don’t think he cares who knows it.

Hence the leg irons and the continuous calls for ice to be sent to our rooms.

None of the crew blink twice, no matter what they see. I have a feeling anyone who discusses the goings-on here will be summarily fired. Or worse.

“Open.”

I open my mouth and am rewarded with another bite of fruit. Mango this time. Delicious.

“You’re getting much better at eating.” His off-handed comment shouldn’t warm me so much, but it does. I’m a slut for any compliment, any touch. Instead of bemoaning that something is wrong with me, I thank him and give him another cautious kiss.

I’m wary not to be presumptuous. He tells me I must work on paying attention and only grovel when his forgiveness is required.

He also insists I have the table manners of a child and a barbarian and he’s quickly resolved this is the first thing we must address.

Mealtimes are both a torture and a delight. Gone are the days when I was allowed to slurp my noodles or finish my dinner in under ten minutes flat. Eating is a fundamental social grace and anyone in this world who is incapable of mastering even the most basic of table manners will quickly be spurned, or so Ben tells me.

The food, the wine, everything we eat is exquisitely prepared, and I know now why he insisted on having Pryde here. The man is matchless in his talent and Ben assures me it is good if I learn all things epicurean so I don’t embarrass myself at public functions.

I just didn’t think he meant it so _literally_ when he said I need to learn how to eat and dress and sit. But apparently, even as there are rules of survival in the concrete jungle where I used to live, there are rules in this world, too.

So, he instructs me on the proper use of my utensils, how to hold my table knife and balance each bite on the back of my fork and lift it gracefully to my mouth, how wide to open my lips, how to hold my arms at my side, how to chew, everything. Once I get the hang of it, I pretend it’s all a game, and Ben seems to approve of how quickly I learn.

He promises we’ll work on more complicated things later, like lobster tails and shellfish and escargot.

My rear end is throbbing and I shift in his lap, careful not to jounce him or draw the attention of any nearby staff. But I really wish he’d let me have another painkiller. Or two.

I think I’m building up a tolerance to the drugs he’s been giving me. Lately, once or twice, I’ve woken up to him fucking me in my sleep.

Okay, maybe more than once or twice.

I do my best to lie there quietly and let him do it, too fascinated by his soft, rhythmic panting against my neck to let him know I’m awake.

But when he knows, he never stops. He just whispers, his sweaty face pressed against my ear, “Go back to sleep, princess. Dream about me.”

Sometimes I do.

But sometimes I can’t.

So, I listen and hold myself limp and still until he finishes, eagerly waiting for the moment when he clutches me to him so gently it hurts. I’m disturbed by how enthralling it is, to know he wants me even when I’m dead asleep.

He wants me.

He wants me to want him, too, I think. To trust him.

I do try.

Even as he grows more and more demanding, I don’t deny him anything, not a thing. At some point, I think we’re both just wondering the same question – how far am I going to let him go?

I swallow whatever he puts in my mouth, whether it’s my birth control pills or some sedative or food or even him. I have to trust he has my best interests at heart.

He says he does. I know he’s a liar sometimes, but I don’t think he’s lying about this.

He was right. He takes excellent care of his things.

This doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

The safest time is after we have sex, when he pets me and plays with my hair and regards me with an escalating mixture of watchfulness and obsession.

It’s frightening because I can’t seem to see an end to it. I can’t find the bottom of the well in which we are both sinking and it scares me. But, God, it makes me feel powerful, too.

Because in those moments after, I know he would give me anything my heart desires. I could ask for the world, and he would hand it to me. I could ask for a new yacht and designer clothes and jewelry and art.

I could ask for a dozen Bugattis and he would make it happen.

I think…I think if I asked him for the moon he would try to get it for me. He would find a way.

And so, a few nights later, in that breathless, delirious aftermath, I dare to ask him.

“Ben?”

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. You’re tired.”

Slightly nervous, I meet his eyes. Something transfers between us. A mutual understanding that supersedes the roles we assume in light of day. I decide I’m going to be brave enough to stand my ground.

“Now that…Kylo is dead, I-I want to find out what happened to my parents.”

To my surprise, his jaw works for a minute and he scowls.

I’ve made him unhappy somehow, and I frantically try to think of why he might be upset by this request.

“It’s not…” I stammer, “I’m not unhappy here. With you. Not at all. I’m…this is all…beyond amazing. I just want to know.”

I touch his face and he clasps my hand, pressing it to his cheek. But his scowl darkens.

“I seem to recall you telling me you’ve let the past die. Tell me you’re not lying.” His voice carries an endless warning, and I brace myself.

He’s hurt, I think. Oh, shit.

“I’m not lying,” I breathe. “Only…I can’t live the rest of my life not knowing.”

Whatever mercurial pain flashes through his eyes is gone in an instant, replaced by a mocking sneer.

This look I haven’t yet learned how to manage, but I can easily read it and it fills me with sinking dread.

But he only changes the subject, or so I think.

“Why did you run away? That night?”

“I just…” _Don’t lie._

“Wanted to fuck with me?”

 _Yes._ “No! No. I wanted to find Bazine.”

“You believed her? What she said about me?”

_…you need to get away from him, from Ben Solo. He’s dangerous, a monster, and you’re in trouble, real trouble, do you hear me?_

Yes. I believe her now, if not then. And even worse, he can see the truth in my eyes before I can hide it.

Thinking I can redirect the trajectory of his temper, I refrain from even a hint of struggle.

“I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“I’m sure you are,” he hisses.

Fuck. Adrenaline releases into my bloodstream and I brace for what’s coming.

_Fuck._

“Ask me the question.”

_Fuck. Shit. Hell._

I don't want to ask him, and he mutters, “I see it. When you’re sleeping. How still you get. A scared little animal in the dark. Fear is a wonderful thing. I think. That’s when you’re most alive. When you’re afraid. Don’t you agree?”

_Yes._

“Um…”

“Rey,” he bites out. "I said ask me. I'm not telling you again."

“How do you want me, Daddy?”

“The same way I always do, baby whore. At my mercy.”

The grip on my hand turns to iron and he rolls on top of me, dragging my hands overhead into his damned restraints.

“Until I say otherwise, the only words I want to hear out of your mouth are _Yes, Daddy_. Do you think you can handle these very simple instructions, princess?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You remember that first time I fucked you? I didn’t let you come. Remember?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Because I was proving a point.”

“Y-yes. Daddy.” I want to cry and I fucking hate myself. This is all my fault. Again.

“You’re just a very pretty upgrade from my old cum-rag. Isn’t that right?”

_Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry._

Tears prickle the corners of my eyes.

Goddammit.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He reaches for the drawer at the side of the bed and my stomach drops.

“Open.”

I do. And as much as I hate what’s coming next, I try very hard to remember it won’t last forever.

Even monsters need to sleep.

And if I’m very careful, very stealthy, I can watch him while he does.

Maybe then I can think of a way to get what I want.

My life and everyone around me are impeccable, pristine, lovely. Everything functions seamlessly, invisibly. Intuitively.

The crew knows when we wake, whether we have an early morning or a late one, and our every whim is met with instant and precise service. Food is always perfectly hot or chilled and ready at a moment’s notice. If we take a shower, the bed is made up fresh by the time we are finished. If we go up to lounge on the deck or sit in the jacuzzi, drinks and towels and Ben’s sunglasses and mine, too, are always at the ready, no matter where we’ve left them before.

If he does need something, Ben hardly needs to lift a finger and a previously unnoticed steward will appear as if by magic, always with a deferential, “Yes, sir, right away,” or on occasion, “Yes, Mrs. Solo,” although it’s rare I am required to speak or make a request.

Ben decides everything. He permits me alcohol every now and then, and our bartender, apparently a member of the crew who is at our disposal night and day for the sole purpose of managing the yacht’s alcohol service, is working on inventing a cocktail in my honor. At Ben’s request of course.

Pryde, who has been granted quarters almost as opulent as our own, according to Ben, is constantly sending up samples of his latest creations for us to try and occasionally will even make an appearance in person to describe a dish he’s invented. He collaborates with the bartender to assure the proper beverages are served and everything is always flawless and delicious and presented with gorgeous flair.

The days flow on in elegant harmony, and I watch and listen and learn. I’ve learned to stop asking when this ends, for I have a feeling Ben is waiting for something, even as we approach Genoa.

He’s a good teacher. Despite his underlying cruel disposition, I am learning all kinds of things that will prepare me to move into the upper crust of society.

And when it’s time for bed, Ben inevitably takes my hand and leads me past the painting, apparently on loan from his grandmother and guarded night and day, to the elevator that takes us to the owner’s cabin where he proceeds to teach me other, more private things. Painful things, sometimes, although the times when he is soft and sweet and gentle are often far worse, though I cannot put my finger on why.

I can sense frustration from him, even though he remains as unchanging as ever. He holds himself under absolute control, but I can feel a growing tension, a wildness waiting just behind doors he’s keeping carefully closed.

And I need to find a way to open a channel between us, to communicate. I think if I can only understand him better, he would not be forced to attempt to educate me with such a brutal hand.

Eventually, I form an idea, but it absolutely requires me to be able to speak.

He’s only just trusting me out of his sight for brief snatches of time. But time is slipping away and I can't put this off forever.

“Daddy. I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You just went, princess.”

I tilt my head and twirl a lock of his hair around my finger.

“I have to go again.”

He gives me an indulgent smile and unlocks my end of the leg irons, then glances at his watch. “All right. I’m timing you. Starting… _now_.”

I peck him on the cheek and jump up, flying across the deck with every intention of getting rid of the gags.

I need to get his attention. Take some drastic action to show him I’m not afraid of him, no matter what he does.

I’m free for now, but only for minutes. The leg irons pose a special problem since he fucking chains us together, probably because he thinks I won’t push him overboard if we’re attached.

By the time I get to our room, my heart is pounding. I scramble to the bedside and yank open the drawer. With shaking hands, I take out the three gags and the jar of honey.

_Sadistic bastard._

His riding crop is right fucking there, too, and I snatch it up while I still have the nerve. Before my courage evaporates entirely, I run out the exit and fling everything into the sea.

I’m almost sick as I rush back to him on the upper deck.

He’s staring at his watch and smirking like the cat that got the cream and I realize he’s going to be livid.

Fuck.

This little act of rebellion could have been better thought through. And now I’m frantically realizing I can’t take it back.

That shit is halfway to the bottom of the sea by now.

“You’re quiet,” he notes as I lift my foot for him to reattach the leg iron.

His brow wings upward in silent question but I don't speak.

I’d blame his newly missing stuff on one of the crew, but I think he’d fire them or murder them all.

Probably murder.

“I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.” He tweaks my chin.

What’s done is done. I take a deep breath.

“I’ve decided I’m not going to be gagged anymore.” My heart thumps loudly while I watch his reaction. “I can be quiet if you need me to be quiet…and…and…” I falter.

“And what?” he asks softly.

This is so fucking dangerous. He’s growing still, a watchful predator, and some dark power burns in his eyes.

“…if you want me to be your doll, then fine. But if you want me to be your _wife_ …then I need to communicate. When we’re having sex.”

He hums in apparent thought. “You don’t want to be my fucktoy anymore?”

“I’m not a toy. I’m a person. And…I…want…” I can’t even articulate what I want.

“What do you want?”

To be loved. Adored. Seen. Understood.

“I want to be yours. But I’m not some, some _thing_ for you to own. I can make some decisions for myself. I did manage before you.”

He hums again and instead of saying something insulting about how much of a hot mess my life was before he came along, he only rumbles an ominous, “Tell me what you did.”

I swallow my terror and inform him, “I’ve decided I’m done with those ball gags. And the riding crop.”

“What did you do? Hide them?”

“I threw them overboard.”

His derisive snort curdles my innards. “I fucking knew I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight.” His biceps flex under my fingers as he cracks his knuckles. “That’s okay. We can do this the old-fashioned way.”

But I hold my resolve. And instead of losing my temper or trying to slap him or bite a chunk out of his arm, I stare him down. “You can do whatever else you want to me. Just not _that_.”

Amused, he searches my expression but I hold his gaze until he throws back his head and laughs.

“Fair enough.”

This is not at all the reaction I am expecting and my stomach squirms with nerves and the release of pent-up tension.

“Aren’t you angry?” I finally whisper, consternation bubbling up out of nowhere. I should take his good humor and be fucking grateful and fucking let it be.

He shakes his head and plants a wet, wine-flavored kiss on my lips. “I don’t need a ball gag to shut you up, sweetie. You know that.”

This pronouncement is followed by another kiss and I wriggle, fully and uncomfortably aware he _can_ take me down without any effort at all. Not that I’d put up much of a fight. I’m still far too enthralled with the taste of him, the smell of his shaving soap, the sandpapery scuff of his whiskers, the firm resistance of his muscles flexing under the smooth linen of his expensive shirts.

Hard, strong fingers spear into my hair and I scoot closer until I’m smashed against his chest, desperate to get closer still.

“Ben…I’m sorry…” I blurt out. “I know I should have asked you first, but I just…”

I drift off, distracted. He’s sucking hot kisses along my neck and I moan and arch so he can have more.

“…you just what?” His voice is all raspy and heartbreakingly eager.

I bite my lip and wonder if I have the courage to actually say it.

I can’t get enough of this, and I know it’s so fucked up. But for the first time, I give over to it and fully, finally admit to myself what I’ve really been fighting all along.

I love him.

And I _want_ him.

He seems to perceive at least some of my whirling thoughts, definitely the wanting part, even though no words pass between us. But he deepens his kiss until I’m melting and moaning lightly into his mouth and he’s hungrily taking everything and demanding even more.

His touch turns more aggressive and I’m going to burn alive when his thumbs brush over my nipples.

_I’ve fallen in love with you. And you’re the only person on this earth who can truly destroy me._

“What did you want to say, sweetheart?”

“I just want to be with you.”

Okay, so I'm a total fucking coward.

But to him, it’s enough.

He growls, a guttural, urgent sound at the back of his throat. He moves to pick me up, but our ankles are chained together, which he only realizes when the leg irons tug against us both.

“Fuck.” He sounds on edge. Annoyed. But not with me for a change.

My hands tremble and I steady myself on his shoulders, reveling in his heat and strength as he hurries to unlock us.

His mood is almost savage and he hardly waits for us to stumble into our room before he’s ripping at my clothes and shoving me in the direction of the bed. My thighs still sting from a few nights ago when he whipped me until I screamed and then fucked me until I cried myself to sleep.

He tells me he’ll let me know when he’s forgiven me for running away, but I don’t think he’s over it, yet.

But now I’m sore, too tender for another beating so close on the heels of that last one. I resign myself to playing by the rules. I’ve already pushed my luck and he seems to be in a forgiving mood. And while it will most likely result in the kind of soul-twisting sex that feels more like lovemaking and less like punishment, I can’t take any more punishment.

He stalks close and drags his fingernails up the sides of my legs. It hurts and the slightest of gasps escapes me, the tiniest, cut-off breath of pain.

Sensitive as ever, he lightens his touch a fraction and breathes against my neck, curling his arms around me instead of slinging me rudely onto the bed.

“Show Daddy where it hurts.”

“It’s nothing,” I lie.

“I can’t make it all better if I don’t know where it hurts,” he coaxes, digging his fingers into my tender backside, a clear and painful threat.

And I realize he needs this, to hurt me.

Because maybe in the aftermath, for _him_ , maybe fixing me is the only way he doesn’t feel like a monster anymore.

For the first time, perhaps ever, I understand. He needs this as much as I do.

It’s startling and scary. Because this simmering, passionate violence, barely restrained, is going to be so much more destructive than his brutality. I can already feel it.

“I’m fine. Really,” I gasp.

He rumbles a wordless disagreement and ever so lightly pulls the sleeves of my dress down, trapping my hands before smoothing my hair to the side.

A kiss alights on my shoulder, soft as a butterfly’s wing, and he flattens his palms over my hips, pushing my dress down to pool at my feet.

I’m nearly quivering with excitement, with tension.

“Please.” It slips out before I can stop it. But I won’t be silenced. Not anymore.

With a cruel shove, he spins me and throws me onto the bed, where I land with a squeal, propping onto my elbows so I can watch him strip. But he only observes me with that flat, deadly look he gets sometimes.

Like he’s waiting for me to see something.

“What?” I wish he’d just fucking _tell_ me.

Fire burns in his gaze and even if it’s menacing as hell, I want to get closer, want to burn alive in the inferno.

“Rey,” he scolds. “We shouldn’t hurt the ones we love. And when you do dumb shit like throw away Daddy’s toys. It hurts.”

“Then you’re just going to have to punish me.”

I decide I can probably take another spanking or two so long as he doesn’t have that fucking riding crop anymore.

I just need to keep him from going for those safety shears. So I hold his stare and lick my lips, parting my legs just enough to tempt him closer.

And it fucking works.

My heart skips a beat when he crawls over me and hovers there, the heat of him flooding into my pores until I need more. I can feel my nipples tighten and a faint, obscene wetness dampens my thighs.

He draws a finger over my cheek, sweeping back a stray lock of hair. Softly. The adoring look on his face is like a drug. I can’t soak it in fast enough. I can’t hide how desperate I am to have it and look at it and–

I need to _tell_ him. And I will.

He shuffles back and stands with his knees propped against the bed and me spread out before him like an offering.

“I'm assuming you chucked those gags for a reason. Wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me? No?”

I keep my mouth closed.

Not yet.

He rakes his fingertips from the tops of my thighs to my knees and back up again, drawing tingles and goosebumps over my skin. On the way up, he doesn’t stop, and instead, his touch slides over my hips and waist and ribs to cup around my breasts, his thumbs leisurely playing over my nipples until the sensation makes me want to scream and shudder.

I don’t.

I’ve learned so much. How to let him take whatever he wants and never argue. How to heat at his touch and crave it beyond my mortal soul. How to wait.

How to be still.

He leans in again and the rush is beyond bliss, the whisper of his linen shirt against my skin seductively erotic. His breath fans over my neck and his lovely, wet tongue slides over my ear and it’s too much. I want to whimper, beg, plead, but I don’t.

I’ll tell him when it’s time.

I hold myself calm. Not in the way I used to freeze with the paralyzing terror that overshadowed every thought. It’s a peaceful stillness, like the surface of a moonlit pond after a stone’s last ripple disappears to a far-off shore.

I wait, wondering if tonight I'm going to get bruises or kisses or some combination of the two.

And I don’t fucking care so long as they’re his.

His hair tickles my nape, and I wait for him. His hands slide down, more urgent now, pulling me up, molding me around his unyielding form, his body heat flooding me as I wrap my legs around him.

He holds me as if he could break me. Like I’m fragile.

And I am.

He could if he wanted. Break me.

But not with his chains and his riding crop and his endless, ruthless will.

With this.

_Oh, dammit. What have I done?_

“You poor little thing,” he soothes, and I turn my face into his hand, more than ready for his touch. “You’ve lived your whole life thinking nobody wanted you. But it isn’t true. _I_ want you.”

 _How do you know how to do this?_ I want to shout. _How can you see it so clearly?_

“Thinking you’ve been all alone this whole time. But you’re not alone.”

Eternally cautious, I thread my fingers into his thick, luxurious hair while he lifts partway off of me and unfastens his pants one-handed.

“I watched you for so long. Waiting to have you. Did you know that?”

I shake my head. Is he talking about the week after Christmas, when I moved in?

“You can have whatever you want,” I tell him, slightly confused.

“You think I haven’t already taken everything I’ve wanted? You have no fucking clue,” he chuckles darkly and nuzzles under my jaw. A sliver of cold pierces me, then another. “You had my cum in your mouth before we ever kissed,” he whispers in the wake of another, softer kiss.

“What are you talking about?” My question is dangerously impertinent. Borderline disrespectful. I need to calm down. Mind my tone.

His perfect, luscious mouth wraps around a nipple and pulls on it with such devastating tenderness I shiver.

But.

Something’s wrong.

“What do you mean _before_ we ever kissed?”

“You’re such a fucking child, Rey. Still a terrified little rabbit in the woods, running from the monsters. Only I’ve been right here, this whole fucking time.”

He traces a finger down my cheek, watching my reaction, drinking it in. His hand moves lower to caress between my legs and he positions himself against me, nudging inside with a soft moan and few cautious pushes.

“Fuck,” he breathes. "Why can't you see it?"

He shifts his hips and gives me a few leisurely thrusts and I can’t breathe as the hard heat of him impales me.

“What do mean?” I ask again, clutching at his shoulders while he fucks me so slowly I want to scream.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He dips his head to lick at the tip of my breast. “Communication? Tell me what it feels like to get fucked by your worst nightmare.”

“W-wait.” I can’t tell him to stop, I don't dare. He gives me a heavy thrust and I gasp when he hits deep enough for it to hurt. “Please. _Ben_.”

“You’re still hoping there’s a line I’ll draw. That you can control me.”

He presses his forehead to mine and I don’t understand. His pupils are black, ravenous.

“I crossed that line a while ago. And I don’t care to go back.”

I blink, confused.

“I don’t understand.” The quaver in my voice can’t be helped. He’ll probably remember it later and punish me for it. I take another breath. But the harder I try to comprehend, the more it frustrates him.

“If you want to speak, then _say_ something, baby.”

But I can’t speak because he puts his weight on me and pushes his hands into my hair and captures my mouth for a devouring kiss.

We’re working up a sweat together. I need to say it.

He drags his tongue over my collarbone and mutters, “Open.”

I do. But I don’t close my eyes when he kisses me this time. His thrusting grows faster, harder.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he grunts against my mouth. “Say something.”

I've forgotten what to say, what to ask.

Finally, I whimper, “What did you do? Something bad?”

“Every bad thing that ever happened to you is all connected.”

“What are you…? What did you mean worst nightmare?”

“The creature in the mask? It’s me.”

No. _No._ I told him about it ages ago in that dressing room.

“You’re a liar.”

“Watch that mouth, sweetie.”

_You choose, sweetie._

“Ben, what are you saying?” The question comes out all shaky and wrong.

Everything’s dreadfully wrong. As if to emphasize this, he pumps his hips, catching my flesh against his until the friction coalesces and spills fire and ice into my bloodstream.

“I'm saying that at the worst moment of your life I was _there_ ,” he snarls so savagely, I seize up. “I'm saying every problem you've ever had is because of _me_. I'm saying it’s always been my fate to hurt you. Even if saving you was the only good thing I’ve ever done.”

“Saving me?” I ball my fists and smash them into his rock-solid chest, but he just pins them to either side and fucks me harder. His dark eyes bore into mine and I can’t look away.

Every muscle tenses as he fucks me. And I let him, my ears ringing with dawning horror when he pants, “I’ve only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

_I love you._

_You’re mine._

For once he doesn’t look mad or incensed or disappointed.

He looks fucking guilty.

“Who are you?” My voice doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right.

“You already know the truth. You’ve just hidden it away.”

_It is you._

A horrible something swoops in my belly and claws at my heart.

“Oh my God!” I buck my hips and twist against him but his grip turns to steel and his lips peel back from his teeth.

He's a fucking monster.

“Whatever happened to that little doll you had?” he purrs. “Did you keep it for a long time? Or did you throw it away, hoping to forget?”

There’s no way he knows about _that_. Not unless he was fucking there.

There. Right in front of me.

It’s _been_ there this whole time, solid and clear. And now I’m seeing it, and I can’t unsee it. Can’t turn my head and hide from it.

He’s not just a monster. He’s _the_ monster.

_Kylo._

Our gazes lock and the world stops spinning.

“You see it?”

“No.”

No. It’s impossible.

“Ah, you do.”

“Nooo!” I cry. Not because I think he’s lying but because I know it’s true.

“Oh, yes. And it’s about fucking time, sweetheart.” A handsome dimple slashes his cheek when he grins down at me, gorgeous and utterly deranged and terrifying as he pushes his way in again and again and growls in my ear, “Like I said. I’ve been waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. I know I have about a bajillion unanswered replies to this story. Literally, well over a thousand. 
> 
> It's terrible of me to neglect my duty and not reply to you all in a more timely fashion. I'm sorry. I'm bad. I know. But for fuck's sake, I've been waiting for this chapter for so long. Please believe I read EVERY ONE of your comments and revel in the chaos. 
> 
> So, please, _please_ let me know what you think. And Happy New Year, darlings! 
> 
> And I'm also behind on getting the latest AWESOME batch of artwork up, but I will, I promise. xoxoxoxo!


	29. damage

# damage

How delicious to do this while he’s in her, while she’s still wet for him, to look in her eyes and finally _know_ , finally taste that last, delightful scrap.

He won't stop until he's sure he has it. So they can be together in all ways, really know each other without boundaries.

She’s going into shock, he thinks, so he changes his stroke to something a bit gentler. He doesn’t want to jar her over the edge.

Not yet.

Better to stay here as long as he can and hold her on the brink and devour it all when she finally snaps.

It’s what she deserves for withholding herself after he’s waited so long for her to realize they are meant for each other.

He’ll drag it out of her if it’s the last thing he does.

So he fucks her and teases, “You think I wasn’t there? Every time you cried yourself to sleep? Every time you took a bath and ate those god-awful noodles from that shitty restaurant on the corner? You think I wasn’t with you every time you drank that vile tea? Or brushed your teeth? Or combed your hair? I was there. I was always there.”

Frantically, her eyes search his for some sign of deception but he knows she finds only the truth.

“You think I didn’t know how you agonized over your application to Jakku? How you waited so desperately for a chance to dig yourself out of that miserable life? How you spoke to your friends in that fake little voice? The one you only use when you’re lying to yourself as much as to them about how everything’s just fine?”

Her mouth is working around words her mind can’t find and she gapes like a little fish out of water.

_So pretty when you’re so bewildered._

He picks up the pace, wishing he’d stripped away his clothes so he can feel her skin sliding against his.

Next time.

Tears brim in her eyes and he kisses the warm, salty drops as they fall.

“You think I didn’t already know? How lonely you were? Oh, I knew.”

And she needs to understand she can’t hide from him. Never again. So he pushes.

“Every night, always the same. You in your sad little bed. All alone, desperate to sleep. Looking for solace everywhere and never finding it. Too scared to dwell too long in dreams, knowing what waited for you there…it was always me, wasn’t it?”

Her mouth closes and she takes a deep, shuddering breath and this is when he knows he’s right.

_You love me. And you know exactly who I am._

“Say it.”

He slams home, harder than before and every muscle tenses, poised and ready for her to start fighting again.

“Say it. Who am I?”

“Kylo.”

It comes out so softly and timidly, she sounds like a little girl. But the word hangs in the air and seems to crack open the dam between them.

He can’t tear his eyes from hers as he rolls his hips and applies the slightest pressure to her wrists, a reminder not to fight. Not that she’s fighting.

Poor baby isn’t even moving, which is fine. Just the way he likes her, soft and sweet and giving and all his for the taking.

Only it’s so much better when she’s awake.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he pants, unable to hide his faint amusement. “Cat got your tongue?”

She just stares in disbelief and her little mouth drops into a perfect “o”, pink lips trembling.

_Fuck, yes. All mine._

Her mouth works in empty silence and he shifts, spreading her legs and crashing into her with all the force of a changing tide, biting his lip and moaning as he drinks in every last drop of this perfect, exquisite communion.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

He risks a hasty kiss, and when she doesn’t bite him or turn away he lingers, savoring the fine, delicate taste of her, reveling in the way her body yields to his, drowning in her shock and the naked reality between them until his body inexorably demands more.

But even as he fucks her harder, faster, she begins to writhe and pull back. Fascinated, he merely bears down, using simple physics to pin her beneath his weight.

He’s bigger, stronger, and infinitely meaner. There’s no way she’s getting even close to loose until he allows it.

“Y-y-you fucking monster,” she breathes. “Get off me. Get off!”

She begins to fight in earnest, and he's vaguely annoyed she’s chosen to interrupt such a lovely interlude, although this, too, makes his blood sing.

_Ah, there you are. This is more like it._

He slams into her hard enough to take her breath away and gives her a few savage thrusts while she gasps for air.

“What were you going to tell me? Earlier?” He already knows the answer and it sends all thoughts of punishment skittering out the door. “I want to hear you say it.”

“…I _hate_ you…” she grits out.

_I don’t think so._

“Liar.”

It’s easy enough to wrap a fistful of hair around his hand and yank until her eyes water and easier still to bend close and sink his teeth into her shoulder, growling when her body tenses and clenches and gorgeous, mind-bending pressure twists like a blade, low in his pelvis.

She stills and he breathes hard against her for half a minute, tasting blood.

_Shit. I bit you. You see what you do to me?_

“You don’t hate me,” he finally mutters against her neck, damp with sweat and, like him, quivering with pent up tension.

He can feel it, and he gives her a languorous roll that pushes and pulls with such pleasureable friction he couldn’t stop now if a loaded gun was pointed at his head.

“…you don’t hate me,” he repeats, barely breathing the accusation into her ear. “Don’t be a liar, Rey. You know I fucking hate lies.”

“Then you must hate yourself quite a bit,” she spits so wrathfully it makes him chuckle, even as he keeps moving between her thighs, crushing her into the bed.

“Maybe I do,” he croons. “Maybe I hate myself almost as much as I love you.”

This quiets her again and his eyes flicker closed when she unintentionally flexes and flutters around him. It’s enough to make reality waver for a few beats until he can’t hold it in any longer.

“…you love me, too. I already know.”

Her silence confirms it, and the subtle scent of sex and the soft clutch of her flesh mixes with the burning rebuke in her eyes.

“Tell me I’m lying,” he gasps, drilling in and gripping her chin when she tries to turn away.

_No. No escaping this, sweetheart._

She closes her eyes, but it’s too late, he already witnessed it there behind the shock and the hurt.

Hot, pulsing waves of victory sear through him and that blade of ecstasy twists again, forcing his release. He can’t withhold a series of long, heavy moans as he weaves his fingers through hers and buries his face in her neck, spilling into her, shuddering and convulsing with the near-brutal agony of finally letting go until there’s nothing left.

She’s gone limp again, waiting for him to finish and staring at him with stunned reproach. And so he gives her a fond smile and instead of sinking into obliviated sleep, he catches his breath and decides to deliver the second half of her punishment.

_You do love me. And now we’re going to prove it._

He’s staring down at me with such affection and amusement, I might actually die. His forehead is damp with perspiration and that charming lock of hair has fallen over his brow and I love him.

And when he pulls out, giving me a wet kiss that doesn’t do a damned thing to settle me down, I want to cry.

It was him. All this time.

I think I must be in shock because the only thing I can do is lie there while he shuffles off the bed and strips his clothes the rest of the way, dragging me to the side, out of the wet spot on the duvet, before unceremoniously pushing his fingers between my legs until I whimper.

And though he’s sated, hot emotion burns between us.

He’s furious. Furious I didn’t figure it out sooner or furious I won’t say out loud what we both already know.

“You tricked me,” I whisper, suddenly frustrated at how fucking small and inadequate those words are.

I feel more than a little betrayed, since my only source of comfort happens to also be the main source of my lifelong angst.

“I know.” He doesn’t look remotely sorry about it. And then he adds, “But I saved you, too.”

This makes me pause, and somewhere in my drug-addled state - for now, I know for a fact he’s been keeping me drugged and malleable - I realize he’s saved me more than once.

Confused, I try to put the pieces together.

“You mean when I was…you mean the night of the fire?”

“Which one?”

He’s touching me and it feels good.

“Both fires,” I breathe. The one when I was little and the one weeks ago, the night his father almost raped me.

I blink. _Wait_.

His fingers move easily, slipping into the wetness he left behind, circling around and around until I clench my legs together. But he only shoves them apart again and gives me such a menacing look of warning, I grow still, unable to reconcile the lessons of the past week or two with the fact that the monster from my childhood is very much alive and well.

And doing his best to distract me from asking inconvenient questions, apparently.

I try scooting away, and he rumbles, “Move again and see what happens.”

I know better than to contradict this tone, but I can’t help but murmur a shaky, “How…how did you know about the other fire? In Hell’s Kitchen? Who was that guy? The guy I thought was Kylo?”

“Shut up.”

I deflect, arching into his hands like the whore he’s turned me into.

“Why are you trying to make me look crazy?”

Again, he doesn’t deny it.

“Can’t have you talking about things that could get us both in trouble, sweetheart.”

“Don’t.” _Don’t fucking call me sweetheart. I can’t. I can’t–_

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

His eyes glitter with infinite threat as he climbs back on the bed and lies beside me, propped on one side. When he pushes his fingers between my legs again, thumbing my clit with light, lazy touches, I start squirming. And when he bends to draw the tip of my breast into his sinfully hot mouth, I moan.

“What are you doing?” I whimper. I don’t think I want this, this spine-twisting pleasure ripping through me at the touch of his hands.

“Making you come. Now shush.”

I obey, but I don’t really have a choice. He’s getting good at using those ropes stowed in the nightstand by the bed, and whenever the ropes come out, so do the safety shears.

It’s better if I just give him what he wants and not take any chances.

Besides. He’s _never_ this considerate. I wonder if he feels guilty.

He fucking should.

Another surge of anger whips through me but dissolves like sugar when his fingers find a cadence that drives all rational thought from my mind.

He’s watching me and I know I’m glaring back at him, but the soft curve of a smile plays over his mouth and I can feel an inevitable warmth building as he patiently forces me into that realm of fire and darkness.

“Open,” he mouths.

And I do it.

He trails a wet, slippery finger up my belly and dips it between my lips.

“Suck.”

I do this, too, hating how easily he bends me to his will. But I’m trapped, too captivated, and I can’t tear my gaze from his as he drinks it all in.

He said he loves me.

I can taste the both of us on his fingers and liquid fire pours into my limbs and belly and chest when he grunts, “You're my dirty little slut.”

He might as well tell me he loves me again, it makes me so fucking hot.

His tongue slips out, wetting his lips and I’m gone, so lost in the taste and the smell and the filthy _heat_ , it doesn’t even occur to me to argue when he crawls down and pushes my thighs wide.

I couldn’t fight if I wanted to, especially after he leaves a few lingering sucks on each of my breasts until my nipples are tight and aching. He dips his head lower and tells me to hold on to something.

I clutch his shoulders and he wedges me open and puts his mouth on me and when his fingers spear inside in perfect tempo to his tongue, I arch and whine and fall into darkness faster than I’ve ever done before.

I want to die when he forces wave after wave of aching, agonizing bliss on me, until I’m wrung out and crying his name, surrendering to his low cries of encouragement that ring against my flesh until there’s nothing left, giving in to his soft kisses that rain over my thighs and hips and breasts until I shudder and cling to him, the only solid thing in this world.

And after, when he moves back up to kiss the tears from my cheeks and inform me once again he owns me and he always has, I don’t fight this, either.

Because he’s fucking right.

This was never some cheap fucking fling. I love him and I hate him and I have nothing because of him and everything, too.

And even if I’m not ready to say it yet, I know I could ruin him just as easily as he could ruin me. This steadies me somehow.

Maybe I’m not ready to forgive him for terrorizing me or tricking me or hurting me.

But he saved me.

He came for me every time I needed him.

Especially that last time.

He came for me. And then he killed my attacker even though it cut to the bone for him to do it.

We lie together in silence for a long time until I can't hold it in any longer. 

“Why did you…hate him?” I blurt out. “Your father.”

“I didn’t hate him,” Ben replies softly. “He wasn’t worth the effort of hating.”

He might be a monster, but he’s obviously still distraught over what happened. I try again, to say something comforting.

I think it startles us both that I even want to. Comfort him, I mean.

“Did you know? I mean,” I shift in his arms so I can see his face, “did you know he was…like that?”

_A predator._

“He’s always been that way. Even with…” He drops off, jaw clenching visibly.

“Even with what?” I whisper.

A frown mars his brow and my pulse starts up a slow, horrible thump. My brain is rapidly drawing a sickening conclusion and I’m not sure I want him to say the words aloud.

But he does say them, stark and devastatingly sad.

“How do you think I even fucking _exist_?”

“Oh.” Of all the times he’s lied, I know this is not one of them.

Knowing his father raped his mother must have been disturbing enough, but it must be a torment to know the same thing almost happened to me.

Of course it would fuck him up, it would fuck up anyone. Tentatively, I rest my hand on his shoulder. He’s tense and unmoving, as if poised to lash out, like a half-feral dog that's been kicked one too many times.

I don’t know if, other than maybe his therapy sessions, he’s ever talked about this with anyone.

“When did you find out? What he did?” I ask quietly.

“I was fourteen. It was…just before we met. When I found out.”

_…but that means…_

“You were no monster. You were just a child.”

“No. I’ve always been a monster. He made sure I knew. And then, when I found out what happened…what he did to Mother. It only confirmed the truth.”

“No,” I argue.

“Oh, yes. Knowing you’re evil, literally _made_ from it? Well. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

I digest this. He has no intention of apologizing, not for any of it. And I don’t know if I want him to. Not just yet.

“Why did your mother stay with him all this time?”

“My grandmother insisted. To avoid a scandal.”

_There are worse monsters than me out there, Rey._

“But _why_?”

Ben shrugs and counters by redirecting the subject. “You think I’m bad? You have no idea whose blood is running through your veins. Your relatives are worse than mine could ever be.”

I have so many questions, but I’m immediately distracted. The last time I mentioned my parents, he became unaccountably angry.

The silence pooling between us is so full of unease, I’m leery to disrupt the surface and see what might rear its head.

Still. I have to ask.

“Will you tell me what happened that night?”

He sighs. “No. It’s better if you don’t know too much, I think. For now. Can you trust me?”

Trust is a pretty big fucking ask, all things considered.

“And what about…why did you stalk me and…and…?”

His jaw clenches and I sense he wants to tell me. But he only says, “I had to make sure certain things were in place before we could be together. But I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“What things?”

He stays quiet and I know he’ll never tell me. And maybe I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done. He knows things I need to know. And my rage is burning itself out in light of his most recent revelation.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s still a beast. He still owes me an explanation.

But.

I need him. Just like he said.

“Ben?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“Would you please tell me one thing?”

“What?”

“Would you…do you know…what my real name is?”

He pauses, and I wait in agony, hoping this is something he will reveal.

“Yes. I know it,” he mutters into my hair. I’ve never wanted something so desperately. And I know he’ll give me anything I ask.

Well. Almost anything.

“Please.”

“It’s Raisa,” he says so softly I almost can’t hear. “Raisa Palpatine.”

We’re approaching the end of our trip, and something has shifted, even if everything is the same.

Ben remains steady as a rock. Predictable. If I misbehave I know exactly what my punishment will be. So if I'm in the mood for something rough, I act out. And if I want sweet, soft lovemaking, I’m on my best behavior.

He gets me whatever I ask for, although I hardly need to ask, he spoils me so.

No matter what I do, Ben is as reliable as can be, and every night he strips me down and brushes my teeth and combs my hair and we wash each other’s faces and sometimes he chains me to the bed and sometimes he kisses me so passionately I wonder if it’s possible he might feel about me the way I feel about him.

Nobody's ever looked at me the way he does.

Like I'm not damaged or worthless or a terrible burden. He wants me.

He _loves_ me.

Worships me, even, although he inevitably demands I worship him back. And even after all of it, after Kylo and knowing his machinations were devious at the least and deadly at the worst, I cannot let go of the knowledge that whatever happened so many years ago did as much damage to him as to me. He might have been older than I was, but he was a child, too.

I don't know if this helps but I think it might.

* * *

Our favorite pastime, other than sex, is to read. I sit in his lap, turning pages of our book at his signal while I surreptitiously keep an eye on his glasses, which tend to slide down his long nose.

In fact, we're reading when the yacht enters the port of Genoa.

He kisses my cheek to indicate I should turn the page. I do, then I read ahead and wait for him to catch up.

It takes a full ten minutes of both of us staring at the city and the hills beyond before I realize neither of us is reading anymore.

I don’t want to go back. I don’t think he does, either.

We pull up to a large dock and have a light lunch. Other boats are all around, but we’re still on the yacht, waiting for what I don’t know. After lunch, we're back on the upper deck, catching the last of the watery, wintry sun.

I watch him as the soft breeze ruffles his hair. He crouches at my feet with a bottle of nail polish, the tip of his tongue poking between his lips as he paints my toenails a garish shade of red.

“ _Must_ we leave today?” I grouse, riveted by his attention to detail.

“Yes.”

I sigh.

His eyes flash to mine and I smile, hiding my disappointment and wiggling my toes.

He won’t tell me much, but I suspect something is making him exceptionally tight-lipped.

I don’t know why I’m still hesitating to push for details about my parents, but I think it’s because…because if he did something truly unforgivable, then I can’t love him anymore. And if he confirms my growing suspicion they’re no longer alive, then it means I really need to let go of a hope I’ve clung to since I was a child.

Besides, if I try to dig too deep, he’ll only punish me for it. His newest trick is to make me wait forever before he lets me come, if at all, and this, I think, is worse than the goddamned riding crop.

Since revealing the truth, he’s been careful not to mark my face or anywhere else visible, so I have only a few fading stripes on my butt and the bite on my shoulder as physical evidence of just how brutal he can be. The bite still stings, but he’s been particularly attentive with antibacterial ointment so it doesn’t get infected.

After he finishes my toes, he nonchalantly informs me we’ll be disembarking and taking a car to our hotel and that our luggage has already been sent ahead. I make up some excuse to go back inside to get a wrap, and as I walk through our rooms one last time, I want to cry.

I feel like I’m leaving home and it’s stupid.

I’ve never lived the sort of life where I’ve put down roots. I’ve always been able to pick up and walk away, not become attached. Even moving into the penthouse in New York was ridiculously easy, just a few boxes of personal things.

On the way back out, I’m surprised to notice the painting that was here the whole time is gone. Ben cryptically informs me it has served its purpose and has been returned and I’ll be able to see plenty of lovely art on the remainder of our trip.

And then, without any fanfare whatsoever, we make our way down a boarding ramp and off the yacht.

I don’t look back.

We arrive at the hotel in the early evening, just as the light is beginning to change.

The city is lovely, from what I could discern from behind my sunglasses and enormous sun hat, but it isn’t New York and I’m feeling unsettled, agitated. I want a pill or two and Ben is being unbelievably stingy with them. Logically, I know I’m probably going through mild withdrawals from whatever he was drugging me with.

Even if my head is clearer than it’s been, I’m tired and moody and Ben is quieter than usual, brooding over God knows what. It’s strange being back on solid ground after all this time and for the first time since New York, I want to pick a fight or throw a tantrum or do something, anything to provoke his infuriatingly calm, unflappable exterior.

I should know better, mixing my volatile mood with Ben’s predictable temper. He’s been dropping hints all evening that I’m dancing on the edge of earning myself a rough couple of days if I don’t knock it off.

But I know deep down he doesn’t want me all marked up when I meet his precious grandmother.

This embitters me like you wouldn’t believe – the unfairness that at least he is allowed to know who his grandmother is – while I’ve only been given vague answers and a name that feels strange on my tongue.

Any mention of his family sends a quiver of annoyance into me, and when Ben mentions his uncle Luke is flying in tomorrow with important news, it’s all I can do to keep a neutral expression on my face.

Tonight we have reservations at Cantonica, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Europe. I am nervous about it, mostly because Ben assures me my table manners will pass muster, though only barely and only because I’m an ignorant American and can't be trusted to know better. 

“So, you’d best be your most charming, well-behaved self, or they’ll have us both tossed out.”

He observes me from the doorway of the bathroom, smirking, and it grates on my nerves.

My fingers are shaking and I drop my compact on the marble vanity. It cracks the little eyeshadow cake inside and I want to scream. Gritting my teeth, I pick it up and scowl at it, aggravated.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Premenstrual?”

Suddenly, I want to fling a nearby floral arrangement at his head, but I refrain. Fucker probably has been keeping track of my cycle for a while now.

“You ought to know, _Daddy_.”

He hates it when I use this particular tone. But lately, he hasn’t told me to stop. I think he considers it penance for his horrid duplicity. As if anything he does can ever be enough.

Instead of leaving me to finish getting ready alone, he comes in to stand behind me, watching me add the finishing touches to my makeup while he fastens a set of ruby cufflinks to his sleeves. They exactly match the dress I’m wearing.

He had the dress sent ahead from Paris and it was waiting for us when we arrived at our rooms in Canto Bight, a luxury hotel so elite even the rich and famous have trouble getting reservations here.

I’ve only just come from the salon downstairs where I had my hair trimmed and blown out for the bargain price of twelve hundred euros. Refusing to leave me on my own, Ben had his done, too, along with a professional shave that makes his face look baby-soft even as it calls attention to his magnificent bone structure.

From his pocket, he draws a string of rubies, each the size of my thumbnail and set in yellow gold.

My frown deepens.

“I thought you said you’d never buy me yellow gold,” I snipe.

Ignoring my jibe, he gently rests the rubies along my collarbone and bends close to secure the latch. I catch a toe-curling whiff of his aftershave and a deep flutter ripples through me, despite myself.

He is careful of my hair, sweeping it back into place after settling the necklace at my throat. The jewels really are gorgeous. When he kisses my shoulder, right over the spot where he bit me, I feel an unwelcome arousal spill into my midsection.

“ _Did_ I say that?” His eyes meet mine in the mirror, a challenge delivered with such casual inquiry I actually can’t be sure.

His smirk turns wolfish, and I want to slap him.

“If I’m not around, then who would you have to torment, I wonder?”

“Not around?”

“I could die.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You can’t control _everything_ I do.”

“What, you’re going to kill yourself? Well.” He stalks closer and stares me down, pressing in until I’m smashed against the hard edge of the counter. A fist wraps around my hair and yanks my head back and he snarls in my ear, “If you’re so lucky as to escape my sight long enough to actually manage it, then I’ll have them dig _two_ graves.”

Brutal fingers sink into my hip and I can feel him breathing on my neck before his softest threat yet.

“You can’t run from me. You go right ahead and try, sweetheart. And I’ll come for you. I don’t care where you fucking go. You just remember what happened last time you ran away.”

My eyes meet his and find nothing but limitless determination.

So I look down and away, not daring to pull out of his grasp and infuriate him further. It’s satisfying enough to know I can get under his skin.

Coolly, I murmur, “You’re being ridiculous,” and force myself to keep breathing. I reach for my eyeshadow compact instead of smashing the back of my head into his face and splitting his lip open again.

I dab my makeup brush over my browbone while his predatory gaze runs over me, calculating and cruel.

And then he lets me loose.

But he reinforces his warning with a gruff, “I mean it. You ever pull something that stupid, don’t think I won’t be right behind you. After I torch everything and everyone on my way out the door.”

“Well. I guess if I ever do manage to be so _lucky_ , then I’ll see you in hell.”

My defiance has no real heat to it, and I start shading my other brow with perfect nonchalance. The kind of calm I’ve never been able to muster until now.

I hold it together almost all the way through dinner. Partway through, I even manage to forget for brief snatches of time that I’ve married a monster.

Ben charms everyone in his orbit and part of me is admittedly kind of proud to be on his arm. My diamond engagement ring sparkles on my finger, and the ruby necklace I’m wearing is pleasantly weighty and draws a few not-too-subtle glances.

My other jewelry is locked in the hotel vault, but I know Ben doesn’t intend to keep it from me.

He really does want to give me the world.

After the first course, I relax, although I try to be conscious of eating politely, if not as gracefully as Ben does. But the servers and fellow diners seem to think I belong here, and after a glass of delicious wine, I forget my earlier pique and begin to enjoy the meal.

If not for Ben’s smoldering stares and my own growing certainty that I’m hormonal as hell, it would be a perfect evening. He’s still annoyed from our conversation in the bathroom earlier and I resign myself to his partially-seething scrutiny.

Ben does all the talking since everything is in Italian and I don’t speak a word of it.

Light music streams in from another room and course after course comes in, served perfectly and all of it scrumptious.

But my feet are starting to hurt from wearing high heels – I’ve mostly been going barefoot on the yacht for weeks now – and I’m almost positive by the time dessert comes around I’ve started my period.

Dammit.

I should have paid more attention to which section of birth control pills we were on.

No, goddammit. Not we. _Me_.

“Don’t you like it, sweetheart?” Ben coos, reaching for my hand.

“It’s fine,” I snap.

“Rey.”

“I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

A gleam enters his eyes and he smirks, “I _knew_ you were hormonal.”

And I know it’s stupid. I know better. But goddammit if that smug remark doesn’t send pure, white-hot rage zinging through me.

He narrows his eyes, nostrils flaring while I seriously contemplate flinging my wine in his arrogant face.

“You try it.”

Danger sizzles off him as he practically dares me and I almost, _almost_ do. And then it strikes me. Why he’s so damned worried about appearances. Why we’re here on display instead of eating in our rooms and having an early night.

“We’re being watched, aren’t we?”

“Shut up.” His eyes flicker to someone or something behind me and I want to turn, but I don’t have the nerve. Even I can tell when something’s terribly wrong.

“Why won’t you _tell_ me anything?” I ask loudly, stabbing at my tiramisu with too much vengeance. “Who is it? My family? Or someone from yours? Why would–?”

But he lifts his hand and a waiter appears instantly.

All too soon I find myself graciously, but quite firmly escorted from my seat, everyone around me fluttering in Italian and Ben none-too-subtly gripping my arm like a vise.

“You’d better hope to God nobody overheard that,” he says with a murderous hiss in my ear, dragging me into the elevator to our rooms.

We ride in silence to our floor, and when the doors slide open, he yanks on my arm hard enough to bruise, growling “No disruptions” to the sentry just outside our door.

I dig in my heels. He’s going to punish me and he’s a monster and my ears are ringing.

“I just asked a fucking question. It’s not fucking life or death!”

In answer, he grabs me by the hair and pulls me the rest of the way into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

“It _is_ a matter of life and fucking death. You’re undisciplined, out of control.”

“So fucking what?” I bellow.

Exasperated, he stares at me like I’m a stupid child. “In this world? Loose cannons don’t get to live. You have no idea the secrets you’ll be expected to keep and if people think they’re in danger, they’ll have you taken out. Do you understand?”

“No! I don’t understand.” I don’t, not really.

“Why do you think your parents are gone? Why do you think…?”

He drags a hand through his hair. I stand there numb and waiting for more.

_My parents._

But he only says, “I can’t protect you from yourself. Maybe from anyone else. But you have to learn how to control your tongue, Rey. You have to fit in. Or they’ll never let you live.”

My parents are _gone_ , he said. Gone.

They’re dead, then. They must be.

For a few beats, it’s just the three of us. Me, him, and the truth.

“You said there are bigger monsters out there.”

“There. _Are_.”

“Monsters who killed my family?” _Please don’t let it be you._ “Was it you?”

He’s not denying it. But he’s not admitting to it, either.

“Was it _you?”_ I shout.

I’m so close to the truth I can taste it. He’s shaking his head in denial.

But he’s a liar.

And I don’t have enough puzzle pieces to fit together the full picture. Taking a stab in the dark, I mutter, “You don’t want some puppet on a string. You’ve been…trying to make me look crazy. On purpose. Why?”

The muscle at his jaw flexes and he glowers at me. “Why do you think?”

I don’t know. Frustrated tears flood my eyes.

“Because we’re being watched?”

“Because if people think you’re a sane, reliable witness who might _also_ know _their_ secrets…and see that you aren’t disciplined enough to keep from blurting them out? It’s going to get you killed.”

“But not by you.”

He looks at me as if I truly am crazy. I guess it seems rather stupid when I say it out loud. Of course he doesn’t want me dead.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve had to do just to fucking keep you alive?”

_Blackmail. Murder. Extortion._

“Canady?” I breathe. “And that guy who was pretending to be Kylo? Who else? Bazine?”

“You need to let it go,” he barks.

“You’ve hurt people?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve already explained to you in explicit detail weeks ago?”

His eyes are glowing black with fury, and I realize he has no problem doing any of those things he said.

“And Poe? You hurt him, too? New Year’s Eve?”

He’s already taking off his cufflinks and loosening his bowtie.

“You actually _meant_ it when you said you’d hurt my friends. When you said accidents happen.” It’s not a question.

“I meant everything. Now get on your fucking knees.”

“I don’t want to. I’m on my goddamn period. Don’t be gross.”

“Baby if you think your cute little bleeding vagina is going to keep me away, think again.”

He’s already unbuttoned his jacket and starts working on his shirt, pacing like a cage fighter and scowling with such malevolence I temporarily forget everything but the cleansing fire of rage. The weight of the rock on my left hand reminds me I’m not as helpless as he fucking thinks.

He threatened my friends.

He hurt Poe.

He fucking murdered my boss.

And then he framed me for it. Fucking asshole.

Using my thumb, I spin the ring on my finger, moving the diamond to the inside of my hand.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he grinds out, “You’d better adjust that attitude, baby. Because whatever this is? I don’t fucking like it.”

He lunges and I feint with my right hand and slap him as hard as I can with my left, raking seventeen carats of pure vengeance from his eyebrow to his jaw, leaving a bloody gash in its wake.

He isn’t expecting it, and he actually shouts “Fuck!” when I bare my teeth and cock my fist back for another. In slow motion, it seems, he touches his face, momentarily staring at his wet, red fingers in amazement, before glowering at me like an injured wolf.

Fuck. _Fuck._

I’ve managed to slice his face open and my heart skips a beat when I see the damage.

But there’s no turning back now. Whatever Pandora’s box I’ve just cracked open, it’s going to fucking hurt.

I don’t fucking care. My parents are dead.

So, I taunt, “Well. Now we’re both bleeding.”

“Seems fair,” he agrees. “You should have told me you wanted to trade punches, sweetheart.”

He flashes me a bloody grin, made all the worse by the wet streams of scarlet dripping everywhere, sluggishly oozing down his neck and staining his white shirt.

Some sick part of me worries he’s going to need stitches. Nausea rolls up the back of my throat when he prowls close enough for me to smell it, the blood.

“You said it was your fate to hurt me," I bluster. "You’ve already hurt me as much as you can."

I step back.

“That might be true,” he admits. “We can talk about it later. But first, I think you need a nap, baby girl. Night-night.”

And the last thing I see is his fist flying out of nowhere, sending me promptly into dreamless oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oh, we're going there. 
> 
> Point of interest: The name "Raisa" is not only a Russian girl's name but also appears in the actual Star Wars universe, a planet in the Alderaan system.


	30. see

# see

**Sixteen years ago –**

_Don’t ever say. To anyone. You ever tell…and I’ll come and find you…_

“What’s your name, honey? Do you remember?”

I shake my head. _No_. I think I remember. I just can’t say it.

“You were talking, playing outside. With Finn? You two had a fight?”

I nod. _Yes_.

“Can you tell me why?”

After a minute, I decide this is probably okay to tell.

“He was being mean to my dolly. He wouldn’t give her back.”

The lady smiles and holds out a dish of hard candy, and I eye it before taking a piece. I haven’t had any candy for a long time. She pulls the dish back before I can take another piece, but I keep my eyes fixed on it.

“What about your dolly? Does she have a name?”

I can’t remember. I look at my doll. She's taking a nap on the pillow beside me. The lady at the house where I live tried to wash her in the washing machine but she looks funny now.

All messed up.

That boy Finn’s fault. I sniff so I don’t start crying like a baby.

“Won’t you tell me your name?”

_I’ll bite off your fingers one by one if you ever tell._

_Not one sound._

“The monster said I shouldn’t ever tell,” I whisper. Sadness makes my throat hurt. I can’t breathe.

The lady looks at me and writes on her folder.

“Well. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to, Jane.”

I sigh. I’m tired of everyone calling me “girl” or “Jane” because that’s not my name.

“There aren’t any monsters here. Won’t you like to be called by your real name?”

_Yes. I’d like that more than anything in the whole wide world._

“I want my mommy.”

The lady frowns and licks her lips and holds out the dish.

I reach for another piece of candy and the lady says, “Maybe we can find out where she is. But we need to know your name so we can try to find her.”

The dish is still there, right in front of me.

“My name is Rai–” I stop. I almost said.

The monster was real. He was scary and then nice but then mean again before he left me all alone.

_You ever tell anyone who you are or what happened tonight, and I’ll find you. I’ll burn down your house, just like the boathouse. Only before I do, I’ll bite off all your fingers first._

_I found you once already, I’ll find you again. You can’t ever, ever tell, you hear? You can’t say a damn word._

He said a swear but I was more worried about those glittering black eyes behind the mask he wore. He already burned down the boathouse and Mommy and Daddy weren’t able to find me there and he took me away but I was supposed to wait.

And the other monster. She was scary, too, even if she only talked to Kylo. I couldn’t understand her words at all.

But she was wearing all black and her face was covered under the veil on her hat.

She wanted to hurt me, though. I could tell. She didn’t like that I was there, with the other monster.

But it’s been a really long time and nobody’s come to get me yet. Maybe my parents forgot all about me even though I think about them every day.

“Rey? Your name is Rey? Do you know your last name, Rey?”

_Don’t say a word. Not one word. Or I’ll find you._

_And then I’m going to make you sorry._

I press my lips together and nod and pretend like my name is just Ray. Daddy calls me Ray sometimes. With a furtive glance at the lady, I check to see if she believes me.

“Just Ray.”

She’s smiling. She looks happy and she’s writing some more.

While she's busy, I take another piece of candy and look at my dolly, and wonder how long it will be before Mommy and Daddy come for me.

* * *

It takes a few minutes to orient myself.

_Not on the yacht anymore. Italy. Fancy hotel. Restaurant._

_Oh. Shit._

Narrowing my eyes, I try to focus on the huge shadow looming over me.

“You hit me,” I accuse numbly from the floor.

With the toe of his shoe, he prods at my shoulder, turning me onto my back. Before I can sit up, he presses his foot to my throat, applying the barest pressure.

I think it’s only been minutes, but he probably should be looked at by a doctor.

As should I.

The bastard knocked me out cold and I think this means I have a concussion.

Not that I probably don’t deserve worse.

Panic floods in. Combined with the nasty cut on his face, it’s enough to keep me down.

As more of a reflex than an actual indication I intend to fight him off, I grip either side of his shoe with my hands. Predictably, the pressure increases in perfect threat, and he snarls, “Maybe you should stay there a bit longer. Until I’ve had time to cool down.”

“Your face.” The words come out strangled, and he stares at me, half in wonderment, half in fury, and finally lifts his shoe from my neck.

I don’t move.

He stretches out a hand, a semi-genuine offer of help that I immediately spurn. 

Rather than getting offended, he only murmurs, “Get up when you’re ready. Slowly.”

Glaring, I sit up on my own, putting a hand to my temple and drawing in a pained breath.

“Headache?”

Fuck. I feel horrid. As if every part of me has been either wrenched out of place or knocked ajar or is just plain hurting. My other hand presses to my abdomen and he sees.

“Cramps?” he prods, just to be an asshole.

I sniff, and instead of telling him to go fuck himself, I yank off my shoes before shifting to my knees. From the corner of my eye, I catch him smirking. Staying in this position will not do at all, since he wanted me on my knees before I fucked up his pretty face.

Too quickly, I rise on shaking legs. I refuse to look at him, instead choosing to observe the small bloody smear I left behind alongside the drops of his own blood spattered over the otherwise immaculate white carpet.

After a furtive glance, I can see his beautiful face is a fucking mess. I should be feeling victorious, but I’m…I don’t fucking know.

“You’re bleeding _everywhere_ ,” I mutter spitefully, deciding to fuel my anger so I don’t burst into tears.

He doesn’t rise to my baiting, though, only strides to the door and orders a doctor to be sent up right away.

Within minutes, an ambiguous little Italian man and his assistant arrive, and after a brief assessment, the doctor determines stitches are not required for Ben, although he does give him a stern admonition not to walk into any more open doors.

At Ben’s insistence, the doctor wisely keeps his lips together and checks me next, confirming I do indeed have a mild concussion.

_Fucking perfect._

I remain quiet and seated while Ben’s cut is cleaned. He glares at me as the doctor applies surgical tape to his eyebrow and the fleshy part of his cheek. It looks a little better with the blood wiped away, but only just.

After a hasty conversation in Italian and what I can only assume is a substantial bribe, the doctor and his assistant depart, leaving us alone once again.

Glowering malevolently, Ben stalks to the bar and grunts, “I wouldn’t have had to scramble your brain like a little egg if you weren’t so goddamned stubborn, you know that?”

I ignore his jibe. Suddenly restless, I rise from my seat and go to the bar for a glass of water. He’s two steps ahead of me and offers his, already sitting next to the painkillers the doctor left for him.

“Here. Have mine.”

“That’s okay,” I refuse, eyeing the water with no small amount of suspicion and the pills with too much interest. “I can get my own.”

“Princess,” he warns, “it’s right fucking here. Drink it.”

With a shaky hand, I take his glass and give his injury a remorseful perusal while I gulp down the water. I am tremendously unsure of where we go from here and wondering why he’s not beating the shit out of me by now.

Warily, I pass his empty glass back to him, and he purrs, “Good girl. You need help getting cleaned up?”

“I…” The walls are only spinning a little, and I consider the wisdom of denying his help out of pure vindictiveness. I reach unsteadily to brace myself on the bar. The thought of getting into some clean clothes sounds like heaven and simultaneously exhausting. The facilities are all the way in the other room. I don't think I can do it. “Yes. Thank you.”

 _You may have confusion, be tired, be emotional_ , the doctor had warned, among a litany of other possible symptoms.

Ben scowls and immediately flinches when the expression tugs at the surgical tape over the scratch on his cheek. Pain lights his eyes, and I want to bawl like a child and rage like a madwoman.

His frown darkens but he doesn't say anything more sinister than, “Come on, then. And after, I think you should lie down and rest.”

“Okay,” I breathe, confused by his relative gentleness after what I just did to him. But anger is easier right now, and so I rouse my temper and snap, “But if you ever hit me like that again, then that–” I nod to his face “–is _nothing_ compared to what I _will_ do.”

A half-grin quirks his lips and my heart starts beating again.

“Understood,” he agrees. “Let’s get you ready for bed, sweetheart.”

Like mercury, he slides from his perch on the barstool and leads me into the bathroom, where he strips me out of my ruined dress – one more reason I want to cry, since I actually did love it – and he gets the shower going and helps me clean up, leaving me for a minute or two so I can deal with my period.

When he comes back in, he brings me clean underwear and one of his undershirts to sleep in. Apparently, I don't own any pajamas.

He’s docile as a lamb and this throws me off, although I shouldn’t be surprised at all by now. The thought occurs, as frightening as he is sometimes, he’s predictably even-tempered. Whatever anger was present earlier has dissipated, since he usually goes quiet and lethally dark when he’s truly enraged, and he's neither of these at the moment.

“Don’t think I’m not still _furious_ with you. About…earlier…” I threaten, eyeing his face again. “And if you try anything, I'll-I'll fucking murder you in your sleep.”

And he soothes, “Yeah. I know.”

Shit. Maybe this _is_ the way.

I wonder how long I can continue bluffing my way into making him scared of me.

The enormous bed, draped in ivory silk, beckons from across the large bedroom.

I’m not sure I’m ready to crawl into it with a wounded predator, but I’m worn out and I don’t think either of us has much fight left in us.

As if he can read my mind, he lifts me up and carries me to the bed.

I don’t bother trying to fight him, nor do I object when he bends to kiss my forehead with a slight wince.

I’m still regarding him with a healthy dose of mistrust when he strips down and heads into the bathroom to rinse off. After a little while, he emerges shirtless and wearing only a pair of sleep pants.

He leaves the bedroom and comes back in a few seconds, sitting beside me and gently setting a cold pack on my forehead.

“How’s that?”

“Why aren’t you angry with me?”

“Shhh.”

“Ben?”

“Baby, you shouldn’t talk too much. The doctor said no stress.”

“I just was wondering if you hate me.”

“What? No. Why would I hate you?”

“Because of what I just did to your face!”

Tears well in my eyes and I force myself to really look at the ugly red gash I gave him. A horrible mixture of guilt and compassion burns through me.

He sets the ice pack aside. And his explanation twists like a knife in my heart.

“It’s my fault. I…I should have handled things differently.” This admission sounds daringly close to an apology until he hardens his voice. “We’ll talk about it in the morning before my uncle gets here.”

As tired as I am, I’m even more tired of putting this off.

“I just want to know what’s going on.”

We glare at each other in heated silence for a minute or two.

He's stubborn as a goddamned rock, so I break the tense interlude with, “Maybe you should stop trying to control every little thing.”

“Maybe I would if you weren’t so out of control!” His voice rises dangerously, and I pause. He never raises his voice.

And then I say out loud what we both already know.

“Yell all you want. I’m not scared of you.”

I’ve pushed him to the edges of his boundaries and found he has a limit, after all. Not with everyone. But with me, I know in my heart of hearts he will never, ever really _hurt_ me. At least not in the way I just hurt him.

He eventually grumbles, “I can’t beat it into you, and I can’t threaten. What am I supposed to do?”

“Why can’t you just tell me things?”

“Because I can’t even trust you to get through a simple dinner without acting up,” he bites out, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I can’t even trust you to get through a party without doing something insanely stupid like running away – when you know there’s someone out there who wants to kidnap you – I can’t keep you from taking drugs from some random co-worker, or from talking to people you shouldn’t be talking to.”

He’s become uncharacteristically agitated. I wonder if it's because he can't put his hands on me and shake me silly. Cautiously, I touch his arm. It’s an acknowledgment of sorts.

I mean. He does have a point.

“Whose blood was on your shirt? After New Year’s Eve?”

“Moden Canady’s,” he confesses, exhausted. My heart skips a beat, I'm so shocked he just admitted it.

I think back to what Poe told me at our engagement party, about what happened to him that night.

_…must have overheard something wrong…I thought I heard Canady say…_

“Poe said he overheard Phasma telling Canady she gave me drugs. And Canady saying something about going to meet me.”

A chill of pure, icy darkness rolls out of Ben.

“I figured that bitch got you high as fuck on purpose. If she told Canady about it, then she wanted you to get hurt. She knew full well what he would do.” The truth is searing from his eyes into mine, and I can’t hide my horror as I realize he’s right. “Knowing that? I’m even happier to have…expedited his demise.”

He’s confessing to murder, right here and now and all I can do is go cold, then warm, when he mutters, “That Phasma bitch won’t see another sunrise if you don’t want her to. You just say the word.”

“I…” I swallow. This is a frightening kind of power he wields all too casually, offering me another person’s life as easily as he offers cream with my coffee every morning at breakfast. “No, thank you.”

That I even considered his offer before declining reminds me he's already pointed out how similar we are.

I think if I wanted someone to die, Ben would have it taken care of in the same way he’s arranged for me to have a passport or to buy a Bugatti or have a new gown flown in from halfway across the continent.

“…and Poe? Why did you attack him?”

“He just showed up at the wrong time. It wasn’t personal.”

I’m relieved to hear it, and I don’t even recoil when he touches my chin where a slight bruise is already beginning to form.

He’s not refusing any of my questions, and for the first time in my life, I realize that another person is letting me in, truly trusting me. And not just anyone.

 _Ben_ is letting me in and showing me the truth. Just a little, but it’s enough. I can feel things shifting around us like sand.

Thrilled and alarmed that he’s admitted so much, I blurt out the next question that comes to mind and am again surprised by his candid reply.

“Why…kill him? Canady?”

“I needed some leverage…” he breathes, scooting me back so he can kneel over me, careful not to put his full weight down and crush me.

“Leverage? For what?”

He’s caught in the same trance I’m in, and he smooths his palm over my breasts, gently cupping each of them in turn until my nipples peak.

“So you’d hurry up and marry me. I couldn’t drag it out.” His reply is thick with emotion and endless truth. “Someone else was watching you, too, and I couldn’t risk giving them time to…I needed you to stay with me once I had you.”

“Is that why you texted me? Threatened me? That day we went shopping?”

“You were taking forever to wear down. I could only hold out for so long before I just took you. But I wanted you to come to me. That first time.”

Mystified, I almost jokingly ask if the doctor slipped him some truth serum, but he pulls my arm from where it rests at my side and presses my hand to his crotch.

“Why did you lie about the necklaces?” I whisper, hurt and fascinated at the same time. “And the painting?”

He grinds his teeth together. He’s finally decided I’ve had enough, apparently.

But we’re not done, yet.

And I’m not afraid of him anymore. Besides, he won’t risk smacking me again and worsening my concussion.

Knowing this, my touch between his legs turns abruptly aggressive, and I dig my fingernails ever-so-gently into a very sensitive part of his anatomy.

I can plainly read his amused astonishment, but I hold my ground and demand in my sternest voice, “And why were you stalking me before? And terrorizing me?”

Nostrils flaring, he sets his own hand over mine as if he means to pry my grip away.

But there’s no fucking way I’m letting up now. I squeeze harder until he gasps and mutters, “I already told you why. I'd been watching for so long. You were on the verge of losing it. I couldn't let you go on like that. You were a wreck.”

“Because of you!”

“…living like a pauper. I couldn’t watch it anymore. So, I applied enough pressure to get you to call. You're too stubborn.”

_Ha! Pot, meet kettle._

“You made it so I had no choice.”

“Tell me you would have chosen otherwise. If you weren't driven straight into my arms, you never in a million years would have thought to come to me. Not after Hux’s wedding.”

His eyelid flickers, and I can’t argue this twisted bit of logic because I think he’s right.

“And then I found out someone else was watching you, too. On Christmas Day. Right before you called me. If you hadn’t called when you did, I would have come and taken you, willing or not. If you had gone to anyone else…they never could have protected you. Not from – I needed you with me, safe. And I wanted…”

“Wanted what?”

I ease up my hold on his balls but only a little. He doesn’t try to move away just yet.

Instead, he wraps his hand around my throat and applies the same amount of pressure I’m putting on his testicles, hissing, “After everything you fucking put me through, you deserved a little bit of revenge, I think.”

“Everything I put _you_ through?” My voice lilts with indignation, but I stay calm, matching him.

“The fucking gun. Barring your window. Adding that deadbolt. Haring off into danger at every fucking opportunity.”

“I didn’t even know I was in danger.” 

“Well. You were. And still are.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a Palpatine.” He says this as if it should be somewhat obvious.

“I know. You told me my real name. Raisa Palpatine. Like the name of whoever did your painting? Why would that make someone want to hurt me?”

“The man who painted that is your grandfather. You’re his closest heir.”

It takes a full minute for this fact to sink in. “My grandfather? He’s still alive? I have…family? _Real_ family?”

“Rey…no. He’s…a bad person. Evil.”

I try to shove him away, force him to move. I want to pace and rant and cry. But he stays firm and looks almost sorrowful.

I can see he's not going to tell me more, and I lurch, trying to dislodge him, only to become furious when I realize I can't.

“What do you mean _evil_? How do you even know what evil is? You…murderous snake!”

As insults go it’s not my best, but fury flares in his eyes, nonetheless.

He snags my hands, forcing me to hold still, and barks, “Don’t you fucking understand? He's not the only one to worry about. There's another heir. And if Snoke realizes you’re alive, he’ll come for you. He has money, power, resources. And he won’t stop.”

“And my p-parents?”

“They were filthy art traders. Junk and forgeries. I think they got mixed up with Snoke somehow and…none of you were meant to live.”

“Snoke? Is that who else was watching me?”

“I thought so. Up until about two minutes ago. But it can’t have been him all this time. He would have had you killed by now. Like your parents.”

My heart leaps into my throat at the offhand way he states this. He’s evidently had way more time to deal with it than I have.

I’m out of questions. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

But I need to say it aloud. Because speaking the words will make it true.

“Someone had them killed. And why were you there?”

He looks down his long nose, staring at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time, and all I want to do is cry and untangle this sudden tide of emotions.

Haunted, he murmurs, “I think you need to sleep. And I need to think.”

I trace my gaze over his face once more. He returns my stare unflinchingly, and I know he’s thinking of it, too, the night we first met.

And of all of the strange emotions spilling through me, compassion is the one that catches me most by surprise.

“You have that look in your eyes,” he whispers. “From that night. When I told you I was a monster.”

Smiling in spite of everything, and utterly unsurprised he’s read my mind once again, I reply, “You _are_ a monster. But not to me.”

He doesn’t know quite how to respond to this gentle teasing, but if he wasn’t wholeheartedly in love with her before, he most certainly is now.

“Ben. I…”

He cuts her off with a “shhhhh”, too afraid she’s finally going to tell him the truth. Even minutes ago he would have welcomed an admission from her heart. But fuck, Nona always advised against such entanglements and he’s finally beginning to see why.

_Don’t make me vulnerable, Rey. Or I’ll never find the strength to get us through the night._

Because he’s just had an epiphany of sorts.

He can’t change her, and he won’t. And if she cannot be reshaped to fit into his world, then he must reshape the world to fit her, instead.

No matter the cost.

Breathing hard, he moves her hand and rolls away, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He stands up, thinking to catch a few hours of restless sleep on the chaise in the next room and give her some peace and quiet.

But her plea is a bullet to the chest.

“Please don’t leave me alone.”

Sighing, he glances over his shoulder and nods. Facing away, he lies back down, on his side.

She scoots closer and tentatively curves around his back, trailing a small, warm hand over his arm until he pulls it into a loose embrace.

“Ben? I’m sorry. For hurting you.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I was upset. I sort of always liked to pretend my parents might still be alive.”

She sniffles, and he hopes she’s not crying.

She isn’t.

It’s even worse. She’s chattering. Working her way past the cracks in his crumbling defenses with too much ease.

“And I was upset because you hurt Poe. He can be a dumbass sometimes, but he’s family, too. You can do whatever you want to me. But not to my friends.”

_Family. That’s really the crux of this whole fucking problem._

Her hand squeezes his but her voice hardens a touch, “I mean it. You can’t hurt them. I can’t…”

“I won’t hurt them,” he grudgingly promises. “That would hurt you, too.”

And he really doesn’t want her hurt. Not really.

The room grows almost supernaturally silent. He thinks she’s asleep until she informs him, “You just need to learn, is all.”

That concussion must be worse than he thought. She’s not making sense, and he chortles at her somber declaration.

“What exactly do I need to learn?”

“Family sticks together.”

Ah.

“And you’re my family, too, now.”

“Am I?” he asks so softly he isn’t sure she hears. “I don’t know if I know how to be part of a family. Not one that isn’t…”

Twisted. Scarred. Evil. Selfish. Deceitful.

Monsters, all.

“You can,” she murmurs back, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck until a horrible aching wetness stings his eyes. “You just need a teacher.”

Her soft little hand squeezes his again, and for once he doesn’t disagree.

“Go to sleep, Rey.” He tries to sound as menacing as he can, but she isn’t frightened of him anymore, and so there’s really no point.

Still, she obeys his gruff command, so she must be truly tired because she tucks her knees into the back of his and quietens.

_So much for being the only person in the world who knows how to shut you up._

He doesn’t let go of her arm though, gripping it as firmly as he dares, keeping her spooned around him, for once not worried about anything beyond the slow, measured breaths puffing against his nape and the slight weight of her, relaxed and boneless.

Lights from the city and the water beyond glimmer through the heavily embroidered brocade draperies.

He’s not one given to wishing, but for a few minutes, he wonders if they ought to have stayed on the yacht forever, just the two of them.

Perhaps Pryde could have met with some explicable accident, instead of being allowed to report back to whoever coerced him into spying on them in the first place, and they might have lived a life of quiet luxury at sea. Perhaps instead of luring his uncle out with the painting, he might have taken a leaf from Rey’s playbook and dumped the fucking thing overboard and washed his hands of his family’s entire twisted legacy, and started anew with Rey.

In this bittersweet moment, he would hand over his fortune and then some if only…

_…dreams are the only luxuries you cannot afford. No matter how wealthy you become._

His mind turns over his most recent revelation.

Snoke is not the one who’s been watching Rey. It doesn't make sense.

Snoke would have no reason to spy on her when he could simply have her executed and be done with it. He would have done it long ago if he held even a breath of suspicion of her true identity.

So it must be someone else. Perhaps Palpatine himself. As obsessed as the old man is with bloodlines, he would surely want his fortune to go to the heir with the purest lineage, closest to his.

And someone tipped off Bazine to warn Rey, too.

Trying to frighten her into running, flush her into the open while she was separated from him at the precinct.

Which means the only other possibility for whoever hired Plutt and was spying on Rey, not to mention the kidnapping plot, must be from within his own fucking family.

_I never should have embroiled you in the Skywalker family games._

Furious, he realizes how right Nona was. If only he’d left Rey alone and never sought her out, she’d have gone on living her life in happy obscurity without him.

And selfishly, he can’t seem to find the will to care. Because she’s here, now. His.

_What’s done is done. You’re not going anywhere without me ever again._

In the realm between waking and dreaming, as he lies there with her exhaling softly against the back of his neck, he can admit she’s managed to creep into his heart and shine light in all the places he’d thought long abandoned.

For this, if nothing else, he’ll never let her go.

Somewhere in the night, I wake. We’ve shifted in our sleep, and he is sprawled on his back with me halfway on top of him. 

Soft moonlight filters through the draperies, lending an eeriness to the shadows. Once my vision adjusts to the low light, I can see the ugly wound on his face even in the gloom.

Here in the darkness, it’s easier to put the events from all those years ago into context.

The monster I was so scared of all this time was nothing more than a boy, as obviously forced into the situation as I was, and the more I dwell on it, the more I think a reluctant participant in whatever happened. 

For a few minutes, I think how lovely it is to have him relatively at my mercy, all of his gorgeous strength and menace subdued in slumber, even if temporarily.

I suppose even monsters need to sleep sometime, and this makes me grin and press a curious kiss or two to his skin.

Perhaps turnabout is fair play and I should take whatever I want, as he's done so thoroughly to me. 

Careful not to disturb him, I kiss him again, unable to resist smoothing my hand over him, marveling at the firm swell of muscle under my fingertips.

I can tell he’s awake when his breathing changes, and I slide my tongue down his gloriously sculpted chest and rub against him cat-like until a soft chuckle reaches my ears.

But he doesn’t tell me to stop. So I kiss my way down the smooth warmth of his abdomen, scuffing my bruised cheek against the scruffy trail of hair that leads from his navel to his groin.

In the shadows, I feel his eyes on me and when I press a hot kiss to the front of his pajama bottoms, he sucks in a breath of air.

A thrill races through me at the faint, erotic sound, and I carefully tug his pants down a little more, taking the lead for the first time.

“Rey,” he breathes, and my heart skips. I’m sure he’s worried about my concussion, but I don’t care.

Smiling, I hush him the way he’s hushed me a million times. “Shut up.”

To my delight, he does as he’s told, and his fingers spear tentatively into my hair while I rain little kisses over his thighs and hips and even a few over the hardening length of his dick.

His grip tightens when I eventually focus my attention there. I’ve had him in my mouth a hundred times or more, but this time it’s different.

He’s letting me do whatever I want, I realize. Under any other scenario, he’d have my ankles over his shoulders by now, but he’s being careful not to jostle me. I tug his pants down more and he lifts his hips, and I think if we are cautious, we can keep going.

I lick my way up and down, exploring him at my leisure, tracing my tongue over the veins and ridges of his marvelous erection. In a spur of inspiration, I cup him in my hands and spit, smearing the wetness over his hot, silky skin and taking him with my mouth, bobbing my head until my saliva mixes with the salty drops trickling from the tip of him. I flick my tongue there again and again, and he grunts, a deep, urgent sound.

“Please.”

This harshly-whispered word lights the room on fire.

I want him, period be damned. I want him, _now_.

Shuffling back, I strip off my underwear and find the string of my tampon and pull it out and at that moment, my only thought is thank heavens I’m rich because we can make a terrible mess and it doesn’t even fucking matter.

I honestly don't give a shit about anything but getting him closer.

“Hurry.”

Ben must sense the direction of my thoughts because he sits up and tears away my t-shirt and flings it aside. Our mouths smash together too hard and we both recoil and cry out in pain, followed by immediate laughter.

His chest is shaking and he grimaces, “Ow.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry!” I giggle, straddling him and working my jaw a bit. But he’s already threading our fingers together, bracing one of my hands in his while I use the other to guide him between my legs.

“I thought you didn’t want to,” he teases. But he lifts his hips until my head falls back and all I can focus on is the thick, wonderful sensation of him spearing into me.

“I changed my mind.”

I sink down farther, and this angle is so delicious, the way he’s spread out under me, and I’m spread out on top of him. I rock my pelvis, moving experimentally until he’s moaning lightly and we both need more.

But he’s being too gentle and when I demand, “Harder,” he argues, “No. I’ll hurt you.”

“Ben, please, I need…”

His thumbs dig into my hips and each part of me is so sensitized, I can feel every hot slide of his cock as he shifts, altering the pace.

It's good but I need more.

“You,” he gasps, “have a concussion and shouldn’t be bouncing around, sweetheart.”

He drags me close, and I cling to his shoulders, careful not to bump his face again. He kisses me, barely a touch of the lips, and too slowly moves me up and down the length of him, building the tension until I want to scream.

And maybe it’s the dim lighting or the feral energy zapping through the air or my own barely leashed frustration, but he’s never seemed like such a monster, eyes glinting obsidian, muscles rippling with the effort of holding back. I smooth my hands over the hard swells of his pecs, scratching slightly, dragging my touch to his shoulders before cupping either side of his neck.

“You won’t hurt me.”

The dual meaning doesn’t escape either of us, and I clench down, again and again, trying to incite him into more, squeezing and writhing on him until he makes that gorgeous, masculine sound he does when he’s too caught up in the moment.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

He pushes me back and sits up, clutching me around the waist, arching me over his arm. Wet, pulsing delight floods me when he starts licking and kissing my throat and chest and the tips of my breasts, and he’s everywhere, all around, surrounding me inside and out with his heat and his touch.

“This okay?”

Fuck, it's more than okay.

“More.”

Our trembling lips touch just barely. We’re caught up, so exquisitely entranced in the knowing of each other, trying too hard to be careful, dancing too close to the edge. I only know the wet, obscene sounds of our bodies moving together, am conscious only of the hot friction, of the elemental burn of sweat-slicked skin, of the heated hiss of his breath and mine.

He growls and as he takes over, I can feel a swell of possessiveness, a sense of belonging surging through us both. I cry out from the rawness of it, the naked ownership.

Because as much as I am his, I know he's also mine.

“Ben, I _need…please.”_

This plea is dragged out of me so violently he shudders. Smoothly, he rolls us, and I'm on my back. When he pulls out, I gasp at the shock of his absence, thrown into instant chaos when I need him now more than anything, more than air or life itself, but he’s already there, thrusting back in with a throaty groan that shakes me to my core, taking up a relentless cadence that breaks me.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. His mouth moves on mine, eyes wide open as he drinks me in, looking until I’m sure he can see every secret I’ve ever kept, learn every sin I’ve ever committed. He rolls his hips and I lift to meet him and together, where we merge, a terrifying, glorious ache begins to build.

“Come with me,” he coaxes, dipping his head to suck on a nipple and I shriek his name.

He fucks me harder, seizing my shoulders to brace me, and urges again, “Come with me.”

And I want to, I want to come, but I don’t want to leave this place where he’s looking at me as if I’m the only person in the world. Like he loves me.

Like he fucking worships me.

And that’s when I know.

This is definitely not the hearts and flowers kind of love.

It’s the desperate, I’ll die if I have to live without you kind.

“Rey,” he commands, “come with me.”

Our eyes lock and I can’t drag mine away, and he moves so forcefully and gently at the same time, it’s tearing me apart.

I whimper, “Yes, fuck, yes,” hoping to God he doesn’t stop moving just like this. A low whine crawls up the back of my throat and I surrender to it, the tension, the friction, the fire.

“Oh, fuck, baby. _Fuck_.”

Shivers of bliss force me to arch my spine, and I pull against him and throw myself into the abyss just as he pushes against me, jumping in at the same time, our cries echoing against each other’s until the pleasure is nearly painful.

Even as I give over, I know he’s doing the same, his huge, magnificent body quaking against mine, driving us both over the edge of that wild, fiery horizon, and when his grasp tightens into a crush, I cling to every surge, every twisting, perfect convulsion until nothing exists but him.

I love him.

So much it hurts.

And he's mine.

He hovers over me, catching his breath, and reality seeps back in, slowly. I’m smashed into the pillows and it feels like everything below my waist is sticky and wet, and I’m sure the sheets are a disaster.

With a careful, sated groan, he pulls out of me, and for some reason this makes me want to cry. I know we can't stay like this forever, but still.

I don’t even realize I’m actually doing it, crying, until he brushes away a tear with his thumb and croons, “Baby, why the tears?”

“Because I…”

_Love you._

I do. I love his ruthless temper and his iron-hard will and the way he never fails to make sure I know I belong to him.

He’s watching me so intently, I have a hard time finding other words to replace the ones that can’t be said.

“You say whatever pops into your head except for that,” he scolds gently. “Why?”

He sounds miffed but not unduly hurt. He’s just quietly amused, and so I ignore the question and curl against him, not uttering another word.

I _do_ love him, and I know he knows. It’s enough for now, even if I can’t say it.

Because if it’s true and I say it out loud, then it's real. And if something is real, then it can die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darlings. A few things:
> 
> 1\. It took a little longer to update this because I had a one-shot just bursting to be written. If you have not yet read it and you are into VERY dark Breylo, then here ya go: [Dirty Deeds](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/28675278). This will eventually, someday, hopefully become a longer fic, but I PROMISE to finish Creep, Body of Work, and House of The Rising Sun before haring off on another wild adventure. Probably.
> 
> 2\. Shit's been very crazy so far this year. Wherever you are in the world, I want to extend my love, my hope, and my faith to you. As we live through historic moment after historic moment, I feel like I am constantly witnessing both the best and worst of humankind. But it is my truest hope that the best will prevail if we all remember to love each other, first and foremost. If you ever feel discouraged, hopeless, sad, or afraid, please remember to reach out to your loved ones and the ones who love you. I'm always available on Twitter if you ever need to DM.
> 
> 3\. This story has taken a turn that may be surprising to some of you, but I can honestly say that I'm not surprised in the least. One of the reasons it took a little extra time to update this chapter is because I went back through and did a full re-read to make sure we are staying consistent with plot and character and shit. And I can't tell you how utterly excited I am to finally, FINALLY start wrapping things up.
> 
> 4\. I say this every time, but I have a handful of art and moodies that have been gifted and I am going to try to add them soon. I'm currently dealing with the WONDERFUL problem of having WAY too many un-replied-to messages in my inbox. And while I would love to reply to every one of them today, it's going to take a lot of time and I feel like spending my writing momentum (and my fingers, which actually do get worn out from typing, LOL) on fic. I know you understand, and I hope nobody is feeling snubbed or ignored because I truly, from the bottom of my heart, love to read your thoughts and reactions.
> 
> 5\. @Aethelise called it AGES ago in one of her comments, the Snoke/Rey heir connection. And I can't tell you how I've been tiptoeing around it since then.
> 
> xoxoxo, and more coming soon! <3


	31. burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon, shmannon. 
> 
> So I took some liberties with it. It's fine.
> 
>  **Content warning** : This chapter contains scenes of graphic violence and other strong content as referenced in the tags. PLEASE READ THEM before proceeding.

# burn

**A long time ago, in a country estate far, far away...**

“Ben! It’s time to come inside and dress for dinner!”

“Aww. Ten more minutes?” he hollers, taking a vengeful swipe at the grass underfoot with the net of his lacrosse stick.

His governess calls again, but Ben ignores her, reluctant to return to the house. He’s too old for a governess, anyhow, and he prefers to stay outside and practice with his new stick for a while.

Just because he’s old enough to dress for dinner doesn’t mean he doesn’t also like to linger outside in the slowly descending summer twilight.

“Ben!”

He sighs. Here she comes. She’s scowling and even when she looks upset, he can’t get rid of that warm squirming in his stomach every time he sees her.

Jyn is too young and pretty to be a governess. And she always smells good, even when she’s making him do practice drills or polish up his history homework.

He doesn’t really care about staying on top of his game for next school term, not when being a Solo means he’ll always play first string, even if he sucked at lacrosse, which he doesn't, and he'll always pass his classes, even if he doesn’t try too hard.

Jyn makes him want to try, though, and so he pretends he works hard because he wants to impress his parents when he really doesn’t care about them at all. Besides, they’re hardly ever around.

Although Mother is here this week.

And Dad is going to be here tonight. Along with Uncle Luke.

They always come crawling when they know Nona is coming.

Ben and Jyn are staying at Nona’s country house for at least part of the summer, and Nona will be here tomorrow, even if it is only Vermont and not France, which she generally prefers.

He gives his lacrosse stick another savage practice swing.

Something darker twists through him at the thought of his father being in any proximity to Jyn. He can’t put his finger on why, but last time the two were in the same room, at Christmas, Ben noticed the vaguely uncomfortable way his dad's eyes lingered on the front of Jyn’s sweater.

Of course, Ben only noticed this because his own attention has been drawn there more and more frequently lately.

Jyn is walking this way and it takes her a few minutes since the grounds are extensive and the backyard is huge. He swallows the inevitable surge of embarrassment that crops up every time he sees her and tries to find something cool to do with his hands.

She approaches, kicking at an invisible pebble, her own hands stuffed in her pockets. He would copy her, but then he'd have to drop his lacrosse stick, and doing so might leave the impression he dropped it accidentally.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you? It’s almost time for dinner.”

He swings his stick, twirling it impressively and flashing her a sheepish grin.

“Is it?” He tries to deepen his voice and it comes out as a croak. Heat flushes from his neck to his forehead. His voice is stupid and his face is stupid and everything about him feels big and clumsy and awkward and fucking stupid. Until Jyn smiles and shakes her head.

“I know you’re procrastinating, and I know why.”

She thinks she knows. She thinks he’s avoiding his father.

Only she has no idea what he’s thinking, not really. He’s been waiting until she gives some sign she feels the same way before he tells her how much he admires her.

Maybe he even loves her.

His face glows red, even his ears, which stick out an embarrassing amount. He’s glad for the settling dusk and he stares in uneasy harmony with her as she takes in the manicured lawn stretching from the trees and hills to the pinkening horizon beyond.

The evening breeze kicks up a lock of her chestnut hair and he watches, enchanted, as it curls across her neck before she sweeps it back and smiles, eyeing his lacrosse stick.

“You tape this up yourself?”

Her hand stretches out and he passes it to her, proud and shy at the same time that he’s managed – after lots of practice – to do a respectable job of taping a grip to the stick. She gives it a few practice swings and a thread of helpless yearning tugs at his belly.

“This is great! Your hands are bigger and you have longer arms, so the spacing is just right. Good grip for passing and catching,” she mutters, passing a critical eye over the evenly spaced spiral of athletic tape. Smiling, she goes to hand it back and he decides to be brave. Instead of taking it all the way, he steps close, using the stick to pull them together.

He’s taller than she is by half a foot, and when she looks up in surprise, he bends and kisses her cheek, thrilled and horrified by his own daring and the instant bloom of color that tints her face.

“Ben,” she chides.

Every word he wants to say is stuck on his tongue and he presses his lips together to hold it in, heart sinking.

But in place of the clumsy poetry he's concocted, he whispers the worst thing of all, deciding if he's going to die of shame, he might as well make a thorough job of it.

"I just really love you."

In the tense silence, she tells him, “You know I love you, too. But not like that. You’re like a brother to me. Nothing more. I’m too old for you, anyhow.”

She’s trying to say it too gently, as if it can never happen, the two of them.

Well maybe not now, this minute. But his birthday is coming soon – November, just three months away – and besides, she’s not so very much older than he is. His parents are ten whole years apart. And his grandparents were five years apart and _Nona_ was the elder of the two. The girl can be older sometimes. It can be kind of hot, he imagines, though he prefers not to think of his grandparents in this context at all.

But Jyn has told him a million times he’s very mature for his age.

They’re still standing too close, both clutching the lacrosse stick between them, having forgotten to either hand it off or take it fully in the midst of his rash display of affection.

“Jyn. You need to know, I–”

His voice cracks again in a most humiliating indication of adolescence when he is trying so desperately to prove he is almost a man.

He takes a deep breath, reminded of his grandmother’s constant admonitions to maintain control of his temper, trying to figure out how he can assure Jyn of his sincerity and insist he really is old enough to have a relationship. But he catches a flash of pity in her eyes. And something else.

Before he can figure out just what else _it_ is, his father appears at the edge of the lawn, waving gregariously and strolling to them with his typical vulgar swagger. Ben’s heart sinks even more, knowing without a doubt their interlude will have been on full display from Dad’s vantage.

“Shit.”

This is another thing Ben appreciates about Jyn. She treats him like a grown-up and isn’t afraid to use curse words and blunt language around him.

“Just let me handle this,” Jyn mutters, pressing his lacrosse stick firmly into his hands and putting on an enormous smile of welcome for Han Solo, interloper, and intruder of the worst sort.

* * *

After that last passionate encounter, they both drifted off, tangled in each other’s arms, too tired to move, and too unwilling to break the spell they’d woven together.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, Rey senses almost instantly when he wakes, still too fresh with the magic of their new intimacy. When she asks what troubles him, it doesn’t even occur to him to lie.

“I was just thinking about my governess. And my father.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

And so he does. He explains about Jyn, hinting at his distant relationship with his parents, perhaps inadvertently, but Rey is smart enough to read between the lines. He tells her how he went to bed after dinner that long-ago night, having been forced to sit through an interminable meal with not only his mother and father but his uncle, as well, thinking all the while of Jyn and the conversation his father interrupted.

“I should have known something was off before dinner, but I couldn’t imagine what Dad was planning.”

“He planned it?” Rey asks quietly. “To drug her, and then…?”

Ben shrugs. “All I know is I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for an hour or two, and when I couldn’t take it anymore, I went to check on her. To talk. When I was younger, she would let me sleep at the window seat in her room, sometimes. I would pretend I was a…a dragon, guarding precious treasure, and sometimes I'd write stories about it in my journal.”

“A journal?” Rey chortles a quiet laugh, though not a mocking one. “I guess she would have been less willing to let you in her room after you told her how you felt?”

“She was good. And very ethical. The minute I turned thirteen, she declared me practically a grown man and said she couldn’t allow it anymore. At the time, I took her seriously, intending on being a gentleman, if nothing else. I think she was being kind to my pride.”

“It sounds as if you admired her very much. For good reason.”

Swallowing a lump of burning shame, he murmurs, “I knew deep down I couldn’t sleep in her room anymore. That night, I just wanted to know…I think she was planning to leave. She was too quiet after dinner. I knew something was wrong.” His mouth quirks up but falls quickly back into a frown. “I was hoping for one last goodbye. But I found my father, instead. In the landing outside of her rooms, carrying a tray and two mugs. He didn’t see me. She let him in but left the door open. I heard them talking and Dad came out a minute later. But he wasn’t carrying the tray. And he didn’t actually leave, he only stood outside her door and waited.”

“And then he went back inside,” Rey states blankly. Her voice quivers with rage or fear, or some combination of both. “That night, when he attacked me, he said, ‘My boy never did like it when I played with his toys.’”

She's shaking, and he pulls her closer.

“I was old enough to have an idea of what he did, and I knew it was bad. The next day Jyn was gone before I could see her. I went to tell Mother what I saw, to ask her where Jyn went, but Dad was two steps ahead of me.”

Rey whispers, “Covering his tracks?”

“Oh, yes. I listened while they talked about me like I was the monster, not him. He told Mother he’d been reading my journal – that he’d been worried about me for a while – some of the things I wrote, about Jyn…”

“You were a boy. It was a crush. Surely, he had no right to invade your privacy like that.”

“Mother’s nerves were shot to hell, and she came flying out of the room so fast she never saw me hiding on the other side of the corridor. I almost chased after her, but Luke was still in the room. I decided to stay and listen. Father and Luke were trying to figure out what to do with me, now that Jyn was gone. After Mother left the conversation, Dad’s true side came out. He tried to convince Luke to take me with him for the rest of the summer.”

“Oh, Ben!”

“Neither of my parents wanted anything to do with me. Dad called me an _unfortunate side effect_. That’s when I learned about what he did to Mother. About how I was conceived. About how…she never wanted me.”

Her arms tighten and she strokes a soothing caress over his hair, tracing the shape of his ear and waiting patiently for him to finish extracting the poison and tell the rest of the tale. His breath hitches with long-lost emotion when he reveals the worst betrayal of all, at least in his fourteen-year-old mind.

“Luke wasn’t even acting surprised. And then Dad blamed him for convincing Mother not to have an abortion with me. That’s when I realized he knew. He knew what Dad did, knew about it the whole time my parents were married. And he never said a word to the authorities. If Luke had been a man, taken charge of the family as he should have…” He trails off. “Jyn left because of my father, but Dad never would have hurt her if Luke had done something about him before.”

“So, what did you do?” Her pained question is balm over the savage injury, never fully healed.

“I decided to get revenge, of course. Luke had a shack in the woods where he liked to go and paint. He was good, but he never got famous like some.”

“Like my grandfather?”

“Exactly.” He presses an idle kiss to the top of her head and realizes with some astonishment she’s practically humming with fury. On his behalf.

It’s rather invigorating.

“I didn’t bother to hide that I’d done it, the fire. I didn’t care if they knew.”

“But they didn’t even care. Luke laughed it off and Dad took off again and Mother was locked in her room with a migraine. Nona arrived and took charge before the fire was even out. She informed me I would be attending boarding school. This was not at all what I expected. I hated my family, but I didn’t want to be sent halfway around the world from them. I tried to argue, tried to explain to her why I’d done it. And that’s when I learned it was Nona who forced my parents to get married in the first place. To avoid a blemish on the family name.”

“Ben, that's horrible.”

“She's very Catholic.” He goes on, feeding off an almost purifying sense of enlightenment. “I used to think she was forcing it on them as some kind of penance. But now…I think she had another reason to keep my father so close. And mother seemed compliant enough to go along with the farce.”

“And so you were sent to military school?”

“Yes. Nona arranged everything. It was a very good school in Switzerland. Very elite. The headmaster was none other than Dieter Snoke, and it was a fantastic coincidence that the man happened to be visiting family nearby and I would have a chance to meet him in person before starting my term at school.”

“I didn’t realize you were so well acquainted with him. Snoke, I mean,” Rey breathes. “Do you know how we’re related?”

“Distant cousins. And Sheev Palpatine’s only known living heirs.”

“He must be really awful.”

_The worst, sweetheart. Not that you’ll ever need to look at him. Not if I can help it._

She's crying, and this bewilders him. He strokes her hair and kisses her tears, thinking.

“Ben,” she finally whispers so softly he isn’t sure she’s spoken until she says it again. “ _Ben_.”

“…mmmh?”

“We, um. This is a mess. And I’m…making it worse.”

_Shit._

She’s right, and he can already feel the sticky aftermath of their very recent lovemaking and all the rest and he knows it will only get more uncomfortable, the longer they wait.

“Shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Hang on, then.”

He reaches for the old-fashioned phone on the nightstand to order service from housekeeping while Rey extricates herself from the thoroughly trashed sheets and scampers for the bathroom.

By the time he prowls after her, steam is billowing from the massive walk-in.

The doctor advised him not to get his injury wet, so he’ll need to be careful, but there’s no harm in joining her, so long as he keeps his face out of the water’s spray.

And he doesn’t want to be without her, not after showing her such a dark piece of his past. Because it didn’t frighten her away or make her cringe in pity or even question his point of view.

Something has shifted between them, something desperately important, though he cannot grasp it, yet. All he knows is whatever is shining up at him from her eyes is something he plans on keeping hold of forever if he can.

_I’m never letting you go again._

She’s almost shy as he steps into the shower with her, facing away from the stream of boiling hot water. With a bent finger, he tilts her face so he can inspect her injury. She winces ever-so-slightly when he brushes his thumb over the bruise he gave her and dips his head to kiss her there, then on the lips.

It hurts to kiss her but it hurts more not to.

They take some time in-between kisses to wash each other as they have over the past few weeks. When he insisted she learns him as thoroughly as he knows her.

Only everything is different, now.

Even the familiarity of her touch feels like something new, better than before.

She presses damp little kisses over his chest, and it feels like salvation. Or a benediction.

A soft smile plays at her mouth. As if she knows she’s tearing his soul from the devil’s hands, where it languished for so long. And now she's feeding it back to him in scraps, one piece at a time until he is tame.

_Feral creatures. You have to go gradually with them. Wait until they're ready._

_Get them to trust you, first._

Suddenly conscious of too much, he spins her, soaping her back and derriere before turning her to face him once again. Her hair is wet and scraggly and her makeup streaks down her face. Even though faint purple shadows linger under her eyes, she’s never looked quite so lovely.

When he bends to kiss her this time, she opens her mouth and moans, hungry and urgent. Without thinking, he scoops her up, lifting her thighs as she clings to his shoulders and returns his kiss with such enthusiasm, a pleasant rush of blood surges to his groin.

It only takes a minute or two of her hot, slippery body grinding into his, her taut nipples brushing tantalizingly against his chest before he’s hard and she’s gasping for more.

Her hand trails down over his abs and he grunts when she grasps him and guides him between her legs.

And when he sinks into the silky-slick heat of her, it’s a homecoming of sorts. They cry out as one, and he cants his hips until she clutches his hair and sobs wordlessly into the side of his neck.

He knows he should take care not to jar her too roughly, and he does try, but he cannot fully eradicate that loosening tension, a loss of control, a sense of fire whipping through his blood, burning everything clean.

Looking in her eyes, he can see she’s as gone as he is.

Good.

A low growl rumbles out of him in rhythm to his thrusting and she sighs to match.

_All mine._

Greedily, he wants to devour it all. He wrings another ragged gasp out of her with a heavy jounce, pulling her hips into his until she sheaths him over and over.

Water streams down his back and arms, and her legs lock around his waist. He looks down to watch as he fucks into her, taking more, and more again, and it does not wane or falter, this driving sense of combustion.

"I love you, Rey." The words slip free and he isn't sorry for saying them.

"I know."

She cannot say it back, but she doesn’t need to. She belongs to him, and perhaps for the first time in his life he belongs somewhere, too.

Wherever she is, wherever _this_ is. It’s home.

Even as the thought strikes like lightning, lust rolls like thunder through them both. She growls his name and rolls her hips until he can only clasp her as tightly as he dares and ride out the surging waves of passion with her.

They linger in the aftermath, his arms trembling until she breaks the tension and finds her feet, if a bit unsteadily.

“Did you call housekeeping?” she asks before she's hardly caught her breath.

“Yeah.”

She bites her lip and turns him away, so the spray catches his lower half and rinses him.

“You’d better be a good tipper.”

And he barks a laugh.

He has no idea if he is. Usually, Mitaka is the one to take care of things like leaving tips.

“Maybe that should be something you can be in charge of, sweetheart.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I think you can take over some household responsibilities, don’t you?”

“Then I hope you are prepared to be a very generous tipper.”

Once they've both toweled off, he carries her from the bathroom, bundled up and rummy with fatigue. He’d love to stay awake and continue their banter, but it’s been an impossibly long night and they should probably get some sleep, especially Rey. The doctor did tell him a concussion needs to heal and sleep is best.

Besides, Luke will be here later and he’ll need to be alert for that if nothing else. Not to mention he needs to prepare to confront Nona about a few things.

As requested, housekeeping came and changed the sheets and turned down the covers and he is able to get Rey back into a t-shirt and underwear and haul her once again into bed.

She curls into his side and promptly passes out, even as the thin, gray light of dawn creeps around the edges of the curtains.

And his last thought as he lies in the fading darkness, holding her, is that he is indeed a monster.

A dragon.

Invincible. Powerful.

Guarding priceless treasure.

* * *

A terrible scream rends the air behind him, and the roof of the house collapses before his eyes, sending a tower of sparks high into the night sky.

There’s another scream, abruptly cut off.

The house is bright, glowing, and he pauses to watch. His mask itches his face but he ignores it, knowing his grandmother will be furious if he removes it.

A movement from the shadows across the lawn catches his eye. A little girl. She sees him and her eyes go wide as she darts away. 

Her parents fled to the boathouse, Ben knows.

Another shadow, much larger and more formidable sees the girl and yells “Get her!” and Ben has only moments to decide.

“I’ll take care of her,” he offers, approaching casually so as not to startle the man.

Flames from the burning house warm him, even from here. The entire place will be nothing but ash and cinders by morning.

The man nods and rushes away, headed to the boathouse where the screams came from.

Ben turns his attention to finding the girl, conflicted as he stalks her through the stretch of woods between the main house and the lake.

She is very quiet. A good little hider.

“Little girl? Where are you? Come on out so I can see you.”

She ducks into the shadows, and annoyance lances through him.

“Come out or I’ll flush you out like a little sparrow,” he grumbles.

_Was that a flash of her white nightgown up ahead?_

“Come out,” he calls. “Or I’m going to make it all burn down. You won’t like that, girl.”

_There you are._

She’s crouched in the bushes next to the lake, cowering as he approaches.

“Found you. I told you I would, and now I’m going to make you very, very sorry.”

“Daddy said I should hide with the boats.” She stares him down. The moonlight and flickering firelight are enough to reveal hazel eyes.

“You should hide,” he agrees, trying not to think of how her eyes remind him of Jyn’s, even though he knows they’re not related. It’s innocence, he realizes. And kindness. And bravery.

She’ll not survive if she encounters any of the others.

“Don’t make a sound. Not one sound. There’s a monster loose, do you understand? He’ll find you. He’ll get you.”

“Are you a monster, too?” she whispers.

Under his mask, he grits out through clenched teeth, “I’m the worst monster of all. Now _hide_.”

Her eyes widen even more and she ducks behind a tree, whimpering.

Once he’s sure she’s out of sight, he makes his way to the boathouse, hoping against hope he’ll be able to fetch the painting.

Nona wanted him to get it beyond anything else.

But when he pokes his head inside, he sees it is already loaded onto a boat. The boat bobs beside the dock, already boarded by Snoke and one of his other henchmen, and the large door on the lake side of the boathouse is already open so they can make a quick exit. Ben knows he should demand they turn over Nona’s painting, but he doesn’t quite have the nerve, and he is no match for any of them.

Particularly since Snoke is holding a gun.

Snoke waves him inside, and Ben reluctantly steps through the door. He cannot look at the shivering couple, kneeling in their pajamas next to Snoke’s boat.

There are a few other boats in the large building, but doors in front of them are all closed, obscuring the moonlight that glints ominously on the rippling black waters just beyond.

Snoke's other henchman hovers near the kneeling couple and orders, “Call for the girl to come to you. We cannot leave until we have you all.”

But the woman shakes her head, refusing the directive. Snoke’s man delivers a brutal slap and the woman’s husband calls out a harsh, “No!”

“Call her, or he dies.”

The man mouths to his wife, “…don’t.”

_They love her, the girl. They’re trying to protect her. They won’t say where she is or do anything to lure her here._

_They are going to die._

Snoke’s man pulls a wicked-looking blade and holds it to the kneeling man’s throat.

“I am going to kill him if you don't call for the girl.”

This bolsters her, the girl’s mother. She will not call out, and so, with an evil flash of silver, the assassin draws a thin red line across her husband’s throat. Ben watches in horrified alarm as a spray of crimson spatters over the front of the mother’s pristine white nightgown.

“Where’s that kid?” the killer snarls, moving his dirty blade to the woman’s slender neck. Tears spill down her face but she shakes her head and the man’s hand raises to slap her again.

Ben knows he has no choice. He must choose to be one kind of monster or another. He could fetch the girl and end this nightmare. Or he can end it a different way and send the woman to her death believing a horrible lie.

“She’s dead.” The lie rolls off Ben's tongue with assurance.

The woman wails and the sound of her agony rends his soul in two.

From the boat, Snoke’s eyes crawl over him, but Snoke’s man is suspicious, not buying Ben’s claim so easily. “How’d you kill her?”

Ben hardens his heart, hoping his voice won’t crack at an unfortunate moment.

“I drowned her in the lake.” He is thankful for his mask to add to the illusion. Nona warned him not to take it off, even as she also assured him Snoke would not dare to kill him.

_There could be security cameras, unforeseen circumstances. Keep your mask on always. Retrieve my painting. Leave no evidence behind._

The woman collapses into a sobbing heap and dies as messy a death as her husband. But her killer moves with too much vigor, relishing the act of dragging her hair back to expose her neck and slitting her throat with a dramatic sweep of his arm.

Blood spatters across the dock, all the way to the boat and onto the painting. At this, Snoke unceremoniously lifts his gun and for a moment Ben's heart leaps into his throat. But Snoke only shoots the man for exhibiting such carelessness. Ben can feel the hot, sticky spray of blood hit his pant legs. The air smells like iron, like rusty metal.

Glancing down, he stares, shocked at the sight of three dead bodies, piled together over a growing pool of red. Snoke drapes an oilcloth over the painting, cursing at the blood.

Nona’s lost _Kenobi_. It was supposedly destroyed many years ago.

Snoke catches him watching. “You can tell your grandmother she can have this back when she retrieves what belongs to me.”

Terrified, Ben nods, then clears his throat. After their brief introduction earlier that day, he knows Snoke does not permit disobedience or demonstrations of weakness and Ben has never wished so wholeheartedly to run from his fate.

“Since you’re so keen on arson, I’ll leave you to take care of this mess,” Snoke purrs. “I know you’ll do a thorough job of it. I’d hate to have anyone implicated in tonight’s events.”

“Yessir,” Ben rasps, too afraid to disagree.

“I’ll see you in Switzerland, young Solo. I hope you are prepared for a rigorous first term at Black Spire. _Auf Wiedersehen_.”

The boat's engine hums to life and they pull towards the open door, slowly at first, then speeding up once they've cleared the boathouse. Just then, Ben glimpses a flash of white from the corner of his eye. His pulse kicks into double-time when he realizes what it is.

The girl must’ve slipped in from another entrance.

Only by sheer luck is Snoke looking away, and Ben realizes the girl is partially blocked from view for now. But if she moves, she’ll be seen and if he calls out to her, it might draw attention.

Ben hurries in the opposite direction of her, hoping to draw any last glances to him and not the girl. Near one of the boats, he finds a gasoline canister and quickly starts dumping fuel over the bodies, in a hurry to get the fire going before Snoke turns the boat around and comes back to finish the job.

He tries not to worry about Nona and how angry she'll be. There’s nothing he can do. He paces around the perimeter of the boathouse with the open gas can, sprinkling fuel everywhere, then finding another can and doing it all over again until he’s sure the wooden building is doused and will burn completely.

As nauseating as it is, he pays particular attention to soaking the bodies, knowing if they are found and identified, Snoke’s threat to implicate him or his grandmother will not be vain.

The girl emerges from her hiding spot and Ben is glad for his mask so she cannot see his tears, although she must certainly hear his choking gags when he is ready to set the place to flame.

The fumes are enough to sting his eyes and dizziness hits him. He needs to leave.

She holds a hand over her nose, but she’s staring at the bodies. Though her parents lie face-down, blood is everywhere. The whole scene looks like a gory Jackson Pollock.

“Don’t look at it. Don’t look.”

“They’re sleeping,” she informs him sagely.

“Yes,” he coughs, turning her to the exit and lingering only long enough to toss his prized Zippo lighter – the one he stole from his father’s desk just a week ago – into the middle of it all. An ominous roar and rush of hot air chases him outside, and he drags the girl with him, away from the lake, away from the fire, away from everything.

Nona said leave nothing behind, but Ben cannot abandon the girl here. There is no guarantee Snoke will not return to inspect his handiwork or to send someone else to make sure the girl’s body is found.

A tremendous explosion rips through the air, and he sweeps her into his arms and breaks into a trot, knowing once the other boat engines start exploding there might be shrapnel.

Red and orange flickers from the house, making the shadows dance.

“I wanna go back to bed now.”

“You can’t. The house is burning down. Everything’s on fire.”

“Oh, no!” she sobs, staring at the flames. 

He walks on, headed to where he knows Nona’s car is parked at the end of the long driveway, about a quarter of a mile hike through the grounds.

“Don't cry,” he snaps when her little face screws up like she's getting ready to start bawling in earnest. Nona won't like this at all.

To his surprise, the girl sniffs and gazes at him, lips quivering.

Nobody in his whole life has ever looked at him with such trust in their eyes. Like he’s not a trouble or a screw-up or something to send away.

Even here, his fourteen-year-old heart knows she is special. 

She should have been burned with her parents.

Bile threatens the back of his throat when he considers what to do with her.

_If Snoke knows the girl escaped, he’ll come for her. If he ever finds out I lied…_

“I want my mommy.”

There’s a long silence.

“No.”

He can’t just leave her.

“Daddy said to wait!”

She’s struggling, trying to get down, and he knows it’s a bad idea, he _knows_ , but he growls for her to be quiet and hold still, using his scariest voice, which isn’t difficult to conjure at all. The girl obeys, and he bears her down the long driveway, all the way to the dark road lined with trees for miles and miles in either direction.

She is light, and she wraps her arms around his neck and cries, heartbroken from being scolded so harshly. Awkwardly, he pats her back. She stops after a few minutes and pats his back too. And for some reason, it warms him just a little.

He’s never had something or someone belong to him. Not like this. This is important, he decides.

The girl relaxes, and he walks faster. Nona will have to help. Whether she wants to or not.

He’ll just need to deliver the proper incentive.

But when he finally reaches the car, he can feel his grandmother's extreme displeasure the instant she sets eyes on the girl.

“That is not my painting.”

Following her lead, he replies in French, after settling the girl into the seat beside him.

“Snoke has your painting. He said he’ll give it back in trade for what belongs to him.”

Nona has never cursed in his presence before now, and he would be immensely impressed if he weren’t so worried she is going to do something dreadful.

“Nona, I could not…leave her. They,” he pauses, trying his best to explain what he just witnessed. He must prove he can be mature or she'll never help. “They slaughtered her parents like they were nothing. They wanted to kill her too. She’s innocent.”

“She is trouble, Benji.”

Nona is livid, even from behind her veil and the carefully modulated French that does not lilt above a whisper. It’s sinister enough.

“You want me to go to boarding school, fine. But you cannot control my behavior once I’m there.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll go because I don’t have a choice. But I don’t have to be good. You have to–”

“Benji. You do not even know who she is. What she is. I am sorry her parents were killed, but I cannot risk…”

“You risked sending me in there, knowing he might still be there also.” Ben cannot speak Snoke’s name again. Not right now. It leaves too foul of a taste on his tongue and he is too afraid to admit the bitter tang of fear is only a hint of what is to come.

“Out of anyone, I knew he would not dare to harm you.”

“You would send me to be his student? He pointed a fucking gun at me.” Ben’s voice cracks again and rage and adrenaline floods him for so boldly cursing in his grandmother’s presence.

“You will _mind_ your tongue!” Nona bites out. “And she is not some toy for you to collect. You cannot keep her.”

_Yes, Nona, I can._

He will not run away, nor will he back down. He will face his fears and master them. If he can buy the girl’s safety with his own good behavior, then perhaps…

Perhaps it can make up for what he allowed to happen to Jyn.

He will not be like his uncle, that despicable fucking coward.

Besides. The girl has no one else to protect her. He knows in his heart, Nona will abandon her in the woods at the first opportunity and let the wild animals and nature destroy her. So he hardens his voice, and for the first time in his life, it rings with true authority.

“You will order your driver to take us to the nearest town. We will leave her there. At a police station or something.”

Nona’s hat wobbles from side to side as she shakes her head in disagreement.

“Benji. _Non_. She cannot be left alive to speak of this night. Ever. It could ruin us all.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk.”

“How?”

“I'll scare her. I’ll make sure.” Nona is wavering, he can tell, so he presses on. “In exchange, I will go to school and I will be a model student. I swear it. No trouble. Nothing to bring shame on the family.”

_Since shame is the only thing you seem to care about._

He can practically hear her thinking as she considers his bargain. The girl stirs at his side and he wants to comfort her, extend some gesture of understanding, but he has no time to offer cruel hope when reality must prevail.

He needs to make sure she never speaks of this night.

And so he will do what must be done.

They travel for a while, making a detour across state lines before they cross into Canada for Montreal, where Nona’s jet awaits to take him to his new life.

Eventually, the car stops half a mile outside of the sleepy little town of Niima. The sun will be up soon. He needs to hurry.

He exits and sets her barefoot in the road.

“What’s your name?” 

“Raisa.”

A siren wails far, far off in the distance. He gives her a rough shake, startling her.

“Not anymore. You don’t have a name. You’re nobody, from nowhere.”

Her bottom lip sticks out and he scowls before reminding himself she cannot see his forbidding expression. He will need to put more than the fear of God into her if he is going to keep her from talking and also maintain his anonymity.

He squats in front of her and grabs her face with a hard, unforgiving grip, forcing her to look at him, to meet the eyes behind his mask. He gathers all of his bounding emotions, his fear and pain and shock, and even disappointment, and he feeds it to his heart until it becomes a tangible thing.

A powerful thing.

A tool to be used, if only he has the strength to shape it to his will.

In his most menacing tones, he growls, “What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever seen?”

She grows still and blinks.

“Say it.”

Finally, she whispers, “ _The Jedi and the Siph_.”

He nods, recognizing the popular cartoon, although it’s hardly age-appropriate.

“Daddy lets me watch, but Mommy doesn’t like it,” she confesses, clutching her doll to her chest, eyes as round as the moon.

“Your Mommy was right to be afraid. Those cartoons are real. I’m Kylo. And I’m a monster.”

She whimpers. Kylo is the scariest one of them all.

“And there are other monsters coming for you, too, do you understand? You can’t tell anyone your real name. _Ever_.”

She tries to pull away, but she is a little girl and he is tall for his age, almost a man already. A thrill of horror fills him as she cowers under his increasingly terrible threats until she’s silent as a stone.

And the last thing he remembers is her little face frozen in shock, too frightened even to cry. He leaves her by the roadside and strolls back to his grandmother’s car.

He slumps inside and refuses to look back.

“We shouldn’t leave her. This is wrong and you know it.” He speaks in English, forcing her to accommodate him for a change, even if his words are trembling now.

He pretends it is from fury and not something weaker.

The car pulls away and he drags his mask over his head and scrubs a hand through his hair, glaring at Nona until she lifts the veil from her hat so he can see her, too. She is old but still retains remnants of beauty from her youth. Something in the timeless structure of her bones, the somber gravity in her eyes that are so like his own.

“You must never tell a soul what happened. I will do my best to cover it up. But this plan only works if you stay quiet. You must let her go. She is a child. She does not understand what she saw.”

“She saw her own parents dead in a pool of blood,” he replies numbly. “Her mother would not call out for her. Nor her father. They died to save her.”

“That may be so, but she comes from a long line of evil blood. She will survive. Of this, I have no doubt. Monsters always survive.”

He shakes his head, but his soul has been sealed, the bargain struck, and he must prepare himself for his own survival.

“She will disappear into obscurity and this is for the best. Any reappearance will cause you very great danger, indeed. It is better for us all if she never has cause to remember this night. And best if you forget, too, non?”

 _I will never forget,_ he thinks bitterly. But he only sighs and says without rancor, “I won’t speak of it again, Nona.”

“Secrets are for keeping, Benji. Some can never come out, ever. If they do, it hurts more than just one person, you understand? It hurts the whole family. And we must always present a united front. A strong front.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a beast of a chapter to write. The things I do for love.


	32. bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** To check for SPOILER tags that may be triggering, please view the END NOTES. I'm keeping it out of main tags to avoid spoiling a main plot point, and also because the triggering content is only _mentioned_ , not described in detail.***

# bleed

He glances at the tiny, gold clock on the bedside table.

Luke will be here to meet them within hours, and Nona is expecting them to visit Naboo at some point over the next few days.

_Luke said he has news he can only deliver in person, but I know he only wants to pry information out of me because of Nona's painting._

Rey might have been under the impression the painting on the yacht was on loan from his grandmother, but technically he borrowed it without permission.

It’s not as if he didn’t return it the minute they made port at Genoa, not that he gives a shit if Nona is furious about it. Besides, it served its purpose and lured Luke out of his hidey-hole, even if Pryde never indicated he even recognized the damned thing.

“Daddy?”

A soft kiss lands on his uninjured cheek and he pulls her against his chest, careful not to conk his head against hers for both of their sakes.

“… _mmmh_ …?”

“I was wondering if it’s all right if we could go home?”

“Back to New York?”

“Yeah. I just. Miss everyone.” Her voice quivers, and he squeezes her tighter.

“Of course you miss them,” he croons. Her friends are the only other people she has and it’s not going to kill him to make his family wait. Rey is the only family he needs. And if Nona is so goddamned insistent on a visit, she can fucking board her own jet and fly to New York. “We’ll go straight back if you want. But don’t you want to look at Bugattis?” He did promise to buy her one and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep his word.

“I don’t need a Bugatti,” she whispers against his mouth. “It’s enough I know how to get one any time I want.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. Although next time, I’m asking for a house in the Hamptons instead of a car. Rose said I should.”

A shout of laughter escapes him, bright and unexpected, like a beam of light in the dark.

“We’ll see.”

He can have a car shipped to New York. And he already has a house in the Hamptons. Rey can have that one or he can buy her another, so long as he takes discreet steps to ensure she isn’t solely in charge of decorating the place.

The sudden recollection that she once used packing crates as a coffee table reinforces this decision, and he privately reminds himself to have Mitaka find someone.

But he’s distracted when she kisses his cheek again. She seems happier, and it’s something of a revelation to realize going back to New York lightens his mood, too.

Although their immediate return will be seen as nothing less than a full-blown act of war to his grandmother, he can’t seem to work up too much angst over it.

Fuck Uncle Luke.

Fuck Nona.

His family can fucking wait.

If baby girl wants to go home, then that’s where they’ll fucking go, and he tells her so with a semi-grin since his face is sore as hell.

“Can Beebee come and stay with us, too? When we get back?”

“Well, I don’t mind. But won’t Rose miss him?”

“Rose is going to have enough on her hands soon. What with the baby. She’ll probably be happy not to have to worry about it,” Rey chirps, rolling away and bouncing out of bed to pull the curtains open, letting a stream of sunlight spill in.

He squints against the sudden brightness, and the motion tugs at the cut on his face. Rey is already scampering for the closet, hauling their luggage into the room, and opening dresser drawers, not wasting any time.

He can only watch her toss clothes and lingerie and shoes haphazardly into their open bags for a few chaotic minutes before he calls softly, “Baby girl. Come over here.”

With a crook of his finger, he lures her back to bed so they can ruin another set of sheets.

Mitaka’s already going to be scandalized by the job she’s making of packing their clothes.

Might as well add some more room damages for him to deal with, too.

* * *

Our return to the United States couldn’t be more different than our exodus from it. For one, I’m awake and alert and sober when I board the jet this time, and Ben is more solicitous than I’ve ever seen him.

At least, with me he is. Don’t get me wrong, he still maintains that aloof edge of cruelty, almost a mask he wears against the world, and I know he’s fully capable of unleashing his inner monster to anyone who crosses his path.

But I’ve seen the worst of him and I know what drives him, and despite all of this – or perhaps because of it – I love it. I understand, even if nobody else does.

The weird thing is I don’t think he feels guilty at all for what he did as Kylo.

Honestly, I wonder if he even comprehends how what he did was wrong or why. I mean, let’s be honest. His moral compass isn’t exactly functional, at least not like anyone else’s.

I should be furious with him, and part of me still is.

But I understand, too.

I have so many questions. But I think if we can just get back to some kind of normalcy, or at least my new normal, I’ll be able to finally rationalize everything that’s happened.

We’re halfway to the airport before Ben casually informs me his father’s memorial services will be held tomorrow in New York and, for obvious reasons, we’ll be expected to put in an appearance if we’re in town.

This is how he phrases it. _Put in an appearance._

As if it’s all for show. I suppose it is since I think his father’s death affected Ben only because he regrets it didn’t happen sooner.

“If Amilyn Holdo is there, she’ll probably try to offer you a recommendation for a PI, since you asked her at our engagement party. I’d prefer it if you didn’t give her any information. In light of everything,” he tells me as our car slows and parks near the jet. “I have a feeling she’s going to try to cozy up to you.”

“Why?”

“Because she was having an affair with Dad. She’ll want to find out if either of us knows and try to cover her ass. Get some dirt on one of us at the very least.” 

The cut on his face stands out even more glaringly in light of this information.

“Why don’t you just tell everyone? So everyone can see what a bastard he was?”

“Keeping quiet about Dad’s bad habits is one thing, but humiliate my mother? Please. She’d never willingly show her face in Manhattan again if that affair became public knowledge.”

Grudgingly, I realize he’s holding onto quite a bit of ammunition, and while protecting his mother might seem chivalrous to some, I know him. He’s waiting to use the information to his advantage. 

I wonder what else he’s sitting on, and once again realize the game he’s playing is deeper than I thought.

But he gives me a crooked smile and when the door opens, he politely gestures for me to exit the car. He takes my elbow and escorts me, keeping a watchful eye on the attendants as we board the plane.

I’m still nervous about flying, but maybe there’s something about spending weeks on the yacht that’s desensitized me to travel. After a lifetime of deprivation and poverty, I don’t know if I can become truly accustomed to such cosmopolitan living in mere weeks, but the idea of me, Rey Nobody from Nowhere, as an international traveler and billionaire’s wife, boarding my private jet to fly home to my penthouse in New York, gives me enough of a thrill that I have to make a concerted attempt not to grin like a dork.

I mean, I don’t want to appear unsophisticated. Not after all of the efforts Ben has made to civilize me.

Even with our bruises and cuts and Ben’s surly demeanor to everyone else, the flight attendants and baggage handlers and pilots are helpful and fastidiously efficient and unperturbed by his moodiness.

All too soon, I find myself dozing against his shoulder just after a stomach-churning takeoff. After nodding off for the third or fourth time, Ben informs me there’s a small suite with a bed at the back of the plane, which I dimly recall from last time.

I go lie down, only slightly miffed that he intends to stay in the main cabin and catch up on “business” while I take an extended nap.

And only when he’s gently rocking my shoulder to wake me for landing, do I fully comprehend it.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him.

Ben.

Kylo.

Our plane approaches New York, circling around to the same private airfield from where we departed nearly a month ago, and before I know it we’ve landed. Several customs officials board the plane and Ben hands over our passports and replies to their questions as if by rote, while I nod robotically in agreement and try to look as innocuous as I can when it's my turn to answer.

It’s all very easy and civilized and nothing like the travel I’ve seen in movies – really my only point of reference – and I am struck again by just how differently he lives. And me, now, too.

After a short limo ride, we’re home.

New York is the same as it was when I left it, but everything is different now.

I’m trying to wrap my head around it all, but by the time we’re in the elevator on the way up, I’m tired again.

It’s dark already, and I’m freezing cold, despite the warm coat I’m wearing. I belatedly remember Leia’s fur coat disappeared and my stomach squirms a bit nervously when it occurs to me I’ll likely encounter her at Han Solo’s memorial tomorrow.

When the elevator door slides open, I shiver.

“It’ll take a day or two to get used to the climate difference,” Ben says gently. “Do you want to warm up in the jacuzzi?”

I shake my head. It’s not even seven in the evening, and I’m exhausted again. “I think I just want to go to bed. If that’s all right?”

Ben cocks his head and gives me an appraising look. And then, seeming to read my mind, he scoops me into his arms and carries me upstairs without a word. I’m practically asleep by the time he lies me on the cool, silky sheets, not quite ready to release myself into the nirvana of slumber. He’s pulling off my shoes, rubbing his thumbs over the arches of my feet, loosening my pants and sliding them down my legs, and lastly, tugging my hair free from its messy ponytail before pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

His hands are so large and warm and lovely, and when I tug one to my chest, he clambers rather ungracefully onto the bed behind me, instantly warming me up and lulling me into a dreamless sleep.

Nothing else matters but this.

The next morning, I wake early and feel better than I have in a very long time, despite my troubled, half-remembered dreams.

I had a nightmare, I think, though I remember nothing but hazy images of sleeping people covered in red paint. And fire. Fire everywhere.

And Kylo.

I dreamed he held me and told me not to look, although partway through my dream, he morphed into Ben and stroked my back and murmured nonsensically until I fell back into sleep.

I find Ben already downstairs in his study, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He bends a finger, silently ordering me to come to him with a piercing stare over the top of his glasses. I don’t hesitate to climb into his lap and kiss his raspy cheek. He hasn't shaved this morning and he's scruffy with whiskers.

I examine the cut on his face.

“What are we going to tell people?” I ask, skeptically surveying the injury. There’s no covering it up.

He hums and a playful glitter enters his eyes. Licking his lips, he replies easily, “Tell them what the doctor in Italy put in his medical report.”

“You walked into an open door?” I snort.

“Either that or tell everyone it was a sex thing gone terribly wrong.”

This makes me laugh and his eyes spark with even more amusement when I shake my head no.

“Whatever is your mother going to think?”

“I don’t really care.”

“I think I owe her a mink coat, at the very least,” I say, more somberly. “Unless we know what happened to her old one?”

“It was found in the alley near, ah,” he pauses somewhat delicately, “ _Kylo’s_ body. Along with a garnet necklace.”

My hand clutches my naked throat in a very delayed remembrance of my necklace.

Dammit.

He grows deadly serious in the space of a heartbeat and scowls. “The police are under the assumption that a catering waiter took your jewelry and mother’s fur. And Dad was chasing after him when he was mugged.”

“And his accomplice? Chewie?” 

It's impossible for me to muster any pity for the man who so clearly used to help Han Solo commit his despicable crimes.

“He was a few blocks from Dad. Slipped on the ice and cracked his head open. Died on the spot.”

Bitterness climbs up the back of my throat. “So your father is going to be painted as some kind of hero? What about…the people he hurt?”

Darkness washes over him, and I force myself into silence. He looks at his watch.

“The memorial is at ten o’clock.”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t know if I have the stomach to sit through it.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I stare him down. Ben returns my gaze with a long look, then mutters, “You can stay here, then. I have to go. I’ve given Pryde a few weeks off, but Mitaka is here and he can order something for you if you’re hungry.”

I nod. I _am_ hungry. Starving, actually. I hardly ate yesterday.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I already had something,” he whispers softly, watching me as intently as ever. “I want you to stay here while I’m gone. No running off.”

“You think someone still wants to kidnap me?”

“Yes, and…”

“And?”

“There’s a lot more you need to know. About your family. About what happened that night.”

My heart skips a beat. Talking about it under cover of darkness is one thing, but here, with morning sunshine pouring through the windows, his mention of it is as startling as having cold water dashed in my face.

“Okay.”

Mercurial as ever, he grins and pulls his desk drawer open.

“I got you a new phone. Maybe you can call your friends and catch up?”

This brightens my mood. Until he adds, “And when I get back from Dad’s service we’ll have a long chat. About everything. All right?”

“Okay, Daddy,” I tease, hoping to lighten his foreboding declaration and happy to put off any more earth-shattering revelations for a few more hours. He seems rather melancholy, and I wonder if perhaps losing his father disturbs him more than I previously assumed.

And then Mitaka pokes his head around the door and discreetly clears his throat.

Ah. Time to behave like a proper married woman.

“Good morning, Mrs. Solo. Can I order something up for your breakfast?”

Rey hops from his lap and follows Mitaka, blissfully unaware of the dark turn his mood has taken. He stares after her for a while, deep in thought.

He wasn’t able to reach Luke amid their hasty departure from Italy, and Luke has yet to contact him again since his vague notification that he had information he wished to deliver to Ben in person. But he’ll likely see Luke at his father’s memorial – whatever sham it may be – and Luke can give him his news then.

Pryde is a dead end, thus far, and Ben is second-guessing his earlier suspicion the man was ever a spy in the first place, particularly after being informed Pryde has made no phone calls, nor sent any messages since departing the yacht. In fact, it seems Pryde has made no plans to travel or do anything other than retiring to his country house for what appears to be a genuine holiday.

With Pryde still in Europe and Luke chasing them back to New York, having arrived a few hours after they did last night, the focus of Ben’s concern is drawn to the tidbit he received on the plane yesterday while Rey was napping.

It came from his chief financial advisor, surprisingly enough, after Ben called to ensure things were proceeding on pace to establish Rey’s endowment to the foster care system.

_“Of course we are happy to further such generosity on behalf of Miss Johnson, er, that is Mrs. Solo. The Skywalker family has always been exceedingly charitable to the New York State foster system.”_

This perked his interest more than anything. After his grandfather’s untimely death, Nona has controlled the vast majority of the Skywalker fortune with an iron fist, and to Ben's knowledge, if his uncle would be believed, a rather tight fist at that. He didn't miss the man's use of the Skywalker name. Not Naberrie. Not Amidala. Not Solo.

“I wonder if you can tell me for just how long my family has been…so generous?”

_“Well, I’d say for about eighteen years or so, actually.”_

Eighteen years. Roughly the amount of time since he abandoned Rey on the outskirts of Niima, New York.

Right around the time she was lost in the foster system.

There is no way this is a coincidence.

Nona.

There’s no other explanation.

She covered it all up, Rey’s parents’ murders. Made everyone think Rey was dead, too. The fire, the house, the boathouse, it was all billed as a tragic accident.

That night, Nona swore to Ben if the girl ever spoke up, she’d have her put down like a stray cat.

_I should’ve known she never stopped watching you._

He always assumed his grandmother left the girl to her fate. To protect them all.

But it was Rey she was protecting. All this time.

Ben has no illusions regarding his grandmother’s ruthlessness, so like his own, to foresee and manipulate people and circumstances to her advantage.

If she wanted Rey dead, she would have found a way to do it by now.

And she never made it a secret she believed Rey to be a product of monsters, sprung from pure evil, although the girl is as much a casualty of her lineage as Ben is of his.

And while Sheev Palpatine is still publicly respected as an artist in his own right, Ben's grandmother has warned him more than once that anyone who even hints at the man’s true identity, even unto this day, will quickly be hunted down and butchered, along with countless other souls.

Palpatine was shockingly young during the Holocaust. Close to Rey’s own age now, actually. During and after World War II, Palpatine was merciless in his efforts to ensure anyone who could identify him for his involvement was summarily executed. A nearly perfect record of covering his vile tracks.

From the other room, Rey’s bubbling laughter reaches his ears and he looks at his phone, a mirror of hers.

She’s talking with Finn, and even though faint jealousy twists through his chest, he ignores it, letting her have her happiness for now and wondering how in the hell he’s going to tell her she’s descended from one of the most heinous, murderous officers the Third Reich ever produced.

I’ve decided to help Ben get ready for his father’s memorial service, figuring if I’m not going with him, then the least I can do is give him a wifely send-off.

We’re upstairs in the master bathroom and he insists on brushing my teeth for me. I roll my eyes but I let him do it, following his softly-muttered instructions, just as he taught me.

I don’t know why he gets such a kick out of this, but I can humor him. I think he likes the routine.

“Open.”

I drop my mouth open and say “ahhh” so he can scrub the bristles of my toothbrush over my teeth. He’s getting better at it and at recognizing when I need to–

“Spit.”

I do and his eyes twinkle burnished, golden amber while he watches me rinse and spit again.

“And now what do you say, princess?”

“Thank you, Daddy,” I recite, sing-song.

“Good girl.” He lifts a brow and grunts in matching songlike tones, “Now you do me.”

I laugh, helpless against his mischievous charm, taking my toothbrush and giving it a thorough rinse before brushing his teeth for him. I have to perch on my tiptoes to reach, and he ducks his head to accommodate so I don’t have to stretch too far.

And when I’m all done, he takes the brush and gets a few spots I missed while I watch him in the mirror and try to keep my expression from revealing anything that might cause him to worry. Especially when his mind will likely be on other things.

But, God, his injury looks awful in the stark light of day, somehow worse now that we’re back in New York.

A ragged line of red bisects his cheek from his gorgeously-sculpted cheekbone to his jaw, the torn flesh held together by a few neatly cut strips of surgical tape, which the doctor said is more a precaution than anything, after assuring him the scar will be faint, if one forms at all. Another, shallower cut lies over his eyebrow.

I can tell it pains him to move his face. He seems perfectly fine, otherwise, though he’s shifted back to his typical surly stare at the moment.

In fact, I’d be alarmed if I didn’t know for a fact he's in a dark mood from something else, but not from me or anything I've done, at least. He moves as gracefully as ever, herding me into the bedroom to finish dressing and shooting me such smoldering glances, I’m tempted to tell him to stay and spend the morning fucking me instead.

“You’ll stay here and not try to run off,” Ben chides for the millionth time. He combs a hand through his hair, and I wonder if he’s nervous.

“I promise.”

I motion for him to lean in, and to my surprise – it’s going to take some time to get used to this new docility – he hunches so I can adjust his collar and smooth his jacket over his impossibly broad shoulders.

Straightening up again, he gives me a lingering kiss flavored just faintly of toothpaste and longing. My heart leaps, thinking he might just stay, after all. But he pulls away all too quickly and I pout.

“No stress. You have a concussion. And you don’t leave this house, understand?”

“Yes.” Exasperation and a touch of impertinence tinges my reply. Ben scowls and his voice takes on that deadly growl that never fails to send shivers over my skin.

“I mean it, Rey.”

“I know, Daddy. I won’t.”

He pecks a kiss on my cheek. “Good…I love you.”

I find myself almost blurting out that I love him, too, but something in my heart just won’t let me do it.

It feels like a jinx or a curse or something, even though I know it's ridiculous to think so.

“Hurry back,” I say instead, a surge of self-disappointment filling me when he smirks and shakes his head in bemused resignation and leaves me standing there, all alone.

Alone.

Just like all those years ago.

_Stop it, Rey._

I’ll tell him when he gets back.

I hardly know what to do with myself on my own and I stand in the middle of our room for a full five minutes after he leaves, wondering how I should occupy the next few hours.

I end up taking a shower and putting on a different outfit. It's comfortable, and I’ve only just settled into the sofa with a few fashion magazines and a cup of tea, when I notice Mitaka hovering at the edge of the room. He quietly informs me a guest is on his way up.

“Guest?” My heart thuds with unexpected dread. I spoke with Finn and Rose each this morning and they agreed to give me a day to get over my jet lag before coming for a lengthier visit. I was grateful for the excuse, considering it will give the bruise on my jaw an extra day to fade.

But this means that whoever the guest is, they were not invited.

“Who is it, Mitaka?”

“Luke Skywalker.”

_Shit._

Mitaka must read my expression because he asks, “I can send him off if you like?”

“Um. No, that’s okay.”

Ben was planning on talking to him today, anyhow. I guess I can play hostess until he gets back.

A few minutes later, Luke is shown in and I try to smile. But he’s giving off a strange vibe.

Friendly, but strange.

Mitaka disappears and I invite Luke to sit.

“I wish I could, but no time. I’m here to rescue you.”

“What?” I laugh. “I thought you’d be at Han Solo’s memorial service? Ben said he was going to meet you there.”

“Ah, I must have just missed him!” Luke seems a little too chipper for having just come from a memorial service, and the tension in my chest tightens a notch or two, then even more when he exclaims, “We, my darling niece-in-law, need to scram.”

He reviews my ensemble with a skeptical glance.

“W-what about Ben?”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon. You should go get dressed. Something inconspicuous.”

“I’ll wait for my husband,” I reply dryly, narrowing my eyes. I might not have a chance against Ben in a fight, but Luke isn't nearly as big. I'm pretty sure I can take him down if need be.

Luke shrugs and his eyes drift to the painting over the fireplace, then back to me.

“Suit yourself.”

“Um,” I cast about for something to talk about, wondering what in the hell a person offers to a semi-famous person like him. My gaze lands on my abandoned tea.

Inspired, I ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

“How about some brandy?”

“Errm, sure, lemme just–”

“It's okay! I know where my naughty nephew keeps the good stuff – ah! – here we go!”

But before I can stop him, he ducks behind the bar and pops back up with two brandy glasses and a bottle.

_Naughty nephew? Oh, Uncle Luke, you have no idea. And speaking of the Devil…where is he?_

Luke’s pocket buzzes and I wonder if it’s Ben.

Distracted, he takes out his phone and looks at it and I stand there feeling increasingly awkward.

“I’ll pour,” I volunteer rather abruptly. I don’t care if I seem rude as I move behind the bar to pour two glasses of amber liquid in what I hope is casual hostess etiquette. I don't want him to think I'm suspicious.

But I am.

He’s standing awfully close, and my nerves are jumping already as I replace the bottle’s cap and duck down to return it to its place.

Only when I stand up again do I realize I took my eyes off my stupid fucking glass like a goddamned amateur.

“Ladies first.”

Luke shoots me a friendly wink and I can see he’s waiting for me.

And now I’m faced with a conundrum.

_Did he have time to put something in my drink?_

I eye my brandy with suspicion, reluctant to find out the hard way. I choose the glass in front of him, just to be safe, intending to simply hold it politely until Ben returns.

My nerves ease a bit when he takes up the other glass and lifts it in silent salute.

And for the barest moment, despite their lack of physical resemblance, I can see how Ben and his uncle might be related.

They both have ridiculously good poker faces.

The knot of tension in my chest loosens a little.

Especially after Luke takes a sip and laughs, “Don’t worry, the Solos are the ones who like to spike their drinks, not the Skywalkers.”

Glass in hand, he strolls to the balcony, twitching the blinds aside and peering out, innocuous as can be, and I take a tiny sip. It’s not my favorite, but I need something to do with my hands.

Besides, Ben will be back any minute.

Luke spins and shoots me such a disarming smile it takes a second or two for my brain to catch up to his softly breathed, “Although there’s something to be said for taking a leaf out of someone else’s playbook, don’t you think?”

“Playbook?” My tongue is numb.

Something isn’t right.

“I’m sorry, but I really do need you to come with me, now.”

He’s looking at his phone again, and he’s frowning. His hand is shaking, and he sets his glass down too hard on the bar, tugging at his collar.

“Are you okay…?”

I'm so focused on Luke it doesn't register until it's too late.

Another man strides into the room and by his bearing alone, I know he’s a hired bodyguard. Before I can even blink or ask him who the fuck he is or what he's doing in my house, he puts a gun to Luke’s neck and pulls the trigger.

A spray of red hits the carpet and the white leather sofa and I’m startled enough to drop my glass.

It shatters on the floor next to Luke’s crumpled body, and I stare, dumbstruck at the shards scattered everywhere amid the brandy and blood swirling like paint all over the floor.

Shocked, I gape at him, and I’m about to scream when the assassin’s employer glides into the room and greets me with a melodious purr.

“Ah. Young Raisa. I expected Skywalker to be foolish enough to lead me right to you. Although, I thought Ben Solo would have more common sense than to leave you all alone. How utterly delightful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***spoiler content that may be triggering to some: Mention of Holocaust, mention of Nazis
> 
> Author's End Note:
> 
> Phew. So. Yeahp.
> 
> I know it's been a while since I updated. Real life fucking sucks right now. 
> 
> I decided to get a shorter chapter out there and throw ya'll a bone, otherwise, it would've taken weeks to post and this chapter would've been twenty thousand fucking words long. (And, yes, I have the next fifteen thousand or so already roughly typed out.)
> 
> So. More is coming soon. Things are going to start merging and mixing and I'm super excited about it.
> 
> ........xoxoxo, and thank you for your enduring patience with me and my everlasting love of cliffhangers.......
> 
> ...ya'll didn't think this was JUST about a painting, did you?


	33. obliterate

# obliterate

**Eighteen years ago –**

Ben Solo does not want to go inside a stranger’s house and retrieve his grandmother’s painting. But he is the only person who can do it with the minimum of repercussions, and his grandmother doesn’t have the muscle to heft the fucking thing all the way down the long driveway, anyhow.

He scowls at the ski mask handed to him by his grandmother’s driver.

“What makes you think they’ll just let me walk out the door with it?”

“You remind them that painting is _mine_. They have a daughter, and if nothing else, they will not risk her, not for anything. If you are harmed in any way, I will not hesitate to obliterate them and everything they love. _Everything_.”

Ben gulps.

“But…” he hedges, glaring at the black mask in his hand, reluctant to don it.

“I know who that woman is. That Kenobi _scum_.”

Violent emotion boils out of his grandmother. He can feel it, even if he cannot see her face through her mourning veil. Her softly-uttered declaration doesn’t rise above a soft purr, and yet she might as well shout her hatred from the rooftops. But this is an old hate, borne from many years before he existed.

Ben has spent a lifetime listening from the shadows, learning of the Kenobis and the Palpatines and the Skywalkers, too.

“Benji, it only takes one word, I assure you, and their filthy art smuggling and forgeries can be revealed. And that is the least of it, I assure you.” Here, she drifts off, and Ben wonders if this is something all old people do, make the young wait for them, interminably. Or perhaps it is an unintentional habit of time, a thing in which they are so immersed they simply forget the impetuosity of youth.

“The only reason I do not reveal them now is that to do so will help him.”

Ben doesn’t need to ask who “him” is.

History knows the mysterious General by many other names.

But, Ben knows his true identity. Sheev Palpatine. Nona’s lifelong foe, a man who committed such heinous crimes under the Nazi banner that she will not speak his name unless she must, even now.

“My son did not sacrifice his career in vain to recover what was stolen from the Jews only to be stopped by these pathetic fleas. He will finish his work. And I _will_ have my painting.”

Nona has been obsessed with the Kenobi paintings for as long as Ben can remember.

He stays quiet, letting Nona rant. Maybe she’ll relent and send someone else on this stupid errand if he only allows her some time to vent.

“He was where, Nona?” Ben coaxes, interrupting after losing the train of conversation among his own bitter musings.

“With the stolen art, of course! Your uncle, he got word of a stash of it, many paintings, all stolen by those foul–” Nona mutters a word that makes Ben flush red, it’s so unexpected and vulgar. “–and before he could retrieve it all, the paintings were smuggled away. But I have one in my possession. One of Palpatine’s own works. It puts him in Yavin, Poland at a _very_ inconvenient time.”

Pride and venom lace her words, and Ben knows she refers to _The Order of 1866_. Only Palpatine and Nona and a handful of others are aware that the piece was stamped with the exact mark as the only _other_ painting publicly known to be recovered from that cache.

Presumably, all of the other missing paintings have the same mark on them. And the proximity of Palpatine’s work with the others would shine a spotlight of suspicion directly on him, since he is neither Jewish nor can he entirely account for how he spent his early twenties, though he claims he was in Switzerland the entire time, painting and avoiding the war.

“A pacifist. _Pah!_ I have never heard such a lie! And now I am forced to come to this godforsaken place to handle this when I should be in France.”

Nona hates Vermont. She doesn’t care for New York, either. Or the Hamptons. Or anywhere but Naboo.

Bitterness creeps into her voice and Ben realizes there’s no avoiding it.

Still, he interjects hopefully, “You could send your driver. Or your bodyguard.”

“And risk them taking the wrong painting? Those _chiens_ cannot recognize a Kenobi to save their worthless lives. You will do it.”

“ _Oui_ , Nona,” he relents.

She must catch something of his disheartened tone through her haze of rage. “Those people are nothing,” she assures him with a haughty tilt of her head. “Vile scum who trade junk art and filthy forgeries. You are not their equal, Benji. You are their superior.”

Of this, he has no doubt. But he is not so sure about Dieter Snoke, the Palpatines' distant relative. Ben did not care for the cold appraisal in the headmaster’s eyes when they visited earlier under the pretense of an introduction. Nona’s true motive was to confirm for herself that the Kenobi is here.

“And if Snoke is still there?”

“He will not harm you for the same reason those filthy Palpatines will not. If he hurts a hair on your head, I will not hesitate to reveal what I know. The authorities will seize his inheritance before he can blink an eye and then where will he be?”

“But why are you sending me to his school?” Ben growls, confused and angry beyond measure.

“Don’t be silly, Benji. Black Spire is the best military academy in the world. You will receive an elite education, one far superior to anything your country governess could ever give you. You will be associated with sons of diplomats and royalty and the wealthiest, most influential families, the most exclusive people. You will appreciate your position and be thankful I’ve chosen to handle your recent delinquency so generously.”

He scowls, daring to show his disagreement by expression if not by word.

Nona’s lecture grows sharp and biting. “This is your legacy, your duty to your family, _n'est-ce pas_?”

Suddenly furious his grandmother has no apparent compunctions about sending him halfway around the world to be under the thumb of such a frighteningly sinister man, he snaps, “Is he a Nazi, too? Snoke?”

“Don't be ridiculous, he's my age and much too young. He has an impeccable reputation. He may seem harsh, even cruel. But he will not harm you, so long as you never cross him. Now. Put on your mask and go. Fetch my painting.”

* * *

He takes his seat beside his mother in the front pew and kisses her cheek with a muttered, “Where’s Luke?” by way of greeting.

Leia shakes her head. Ben hasn’t seen her since the night of his and Rey’s engagement party, and he’s hardly spoken to her, either, though they did have a stilted conversation several hours after he absconded with his bride on the _Finalizer_.

He waited until Rey was out cold before making the call, filling in his mother on only the barest of details so she could prepare for the inevitable media storm.

And while he was enjoying something of a honeymoon with Rey off the coast of Italy, Leia made the arrangements for an abbreviated funeral service – not a full mass, thank God – and a wake, and handled the incessant paparazzi and the police and the insurance and all the rest of it.

Despite the strain it must have been, his mother looks as if a weight has lifted off her shoulders.

Settling into the uncomfortable wooden pew, he comments, “I’m not expected to speak, I hope.”

“No. I think the least anyone can expect is that we sit here quietly and put on a good show of things.”

“Nona couldn’t make it?”

“ _Maman_ already sent her regrets.”

_She knew and she couldn’t be fucking bothered to come for his funeral._

He spits, “After making you stay with him all this time, she couldn’t be inconvenienced?”

Leia draws a breath and glances around before murmuring, “Do you honestly think she’d have let him live so long if he wasn’t the only person who–”

Her mouth claps shut and Ben blinks, startled.

“What are you saying? Did Dad know something?”

“Yes. He was the _only_ one who knew.”

“What?”

“And now that he’s dead, you can imagine your grandmother is furious. We can talk about it later. But not here.”

“Nona’s all about putting on a good show,” Ben replies acidly, feeling a bit defensive in light of this revelation.

“Speaking of a good show, where is your wife?” Leia never fails to cut to the bone when she wants to.

“Indisposed,” he hisses, giving her a fierce glare. “You can hardly expect her to be sorry he’s gone.”

Leia grunts, and on anyone else it would be an inelegant sound. “I suppose I don’t blame her. At least you’re here. That’s something, I suppose.”

This time Ben is the one who grunts. “Same to you.”

Leia snorts with unexpected humor, quickly concealed behind a handkerchief, and Ben clenches his teeth together to keep any amusement from showing.

“I think…” his mother says quietly, eyes bright with tears as she turns to look at him with a disconcerting abundance of sentiment. “I think I did really get the best of him in you, Benny. Despite everything, I’m glad I had you. I’ve always been glad. I do love you. Very much.”

Something hot lurches in his throat and his own eyes sting as he shifts away, only to face the closed coffin eight feet in front of him.

“And him? Did you ever…find a way to love him? Or forgive him at least?” The question finds its way loose before it can be quashed along with all of his other warring emotions.

Leia grows so still, he wonders if she can hear him. Or perhaps she thinks the inquiry is rhetorical.

But then she remarks, “I found a way to live with him. For the sake of…” She breaks off, and a quiet fury unlike anything he’s ever seen from her seeps through her perfectly composed, diamond-hard shell. “A man like him wasn’t worthy of love. Not after the things he did. Not after what he did to me.”

A horrible calm washes over him and he stands up, just as the priest approaches. A few whispers reach his ears, but Ben ignores them all, only muttering a brusque, “I don’t think I have the stomach for this, after all. Sorry, Mother.”

Every eye in the church follows his exit, but he doesn’t care.

A small huddle of reporters hovers outside, paparazzi hoping to catch a glimpse of the grieving widow and family. But they are caught unawares by Ben’s too-hasty departure, and, much to his chagrin, so is his driver, who is nowhere in sight.

He grits his teeth and strides to the end of the block, suddenly eager to get to Rey, locked in her guarded tower. Maybe tonight he’ll feed her something to make her sleep, tie her to his bed and keep her there forever, where she’s safe.

Where she’s his.

Where he can pretend she loves him half as much as he loves her.

He flags down his security detail, following at a discreet pace, and demands they get him a car this instant.

They jump to his bidding and he makes a call, furious over the wait. But for the first time since he hired him, Mitaka does not answer.

_You know who she looks exactly like? I don’t think your grandma would approve._

His father’s words echo all too annoyingly in his head, and Ben paces the sidewalk, overcome by a terrible, ominous feeling.

_Something is wrong. Where's Mitaka?_

As he’s staring at his phone, it rings.

Uncle Luke.

“What?” he snarls.

“Benny, I don’t have a lot of time, but you need to know that Dieter Snoke is in New York. Was sniffing around your father's death and he knows about Rey. I’ve sent your decoy on a wild goose chase to draw him off, but I’m headed to your place right now.”

“Decoy? Who, Bazine?”

“Yeah. Found her after New Year’s. When you replaced half your security crew last month, after Han, I think there was a breach.”

_Fuck._

“I think I can get inside,” Luke goes on. “I’m already at your building and I can get up to the house. I can try to warn Mitaka but I don’t know if he can get Rey out of there without tipping anyone off.”

“Mitaka can handle himself. But there’s no way he’ll know about the security breach unless someone warns him. In person.” Mitaka never would have let him out the door if he suspected there was an issue with the security team this morning.

“Unless he’s the bad one,” Luke points out.

“No. Mitaka is loyal. How the fuck did you find out about Bazine?”

“We can talk later. I can get up to your place, make it look like a visit. Convince Rey to come with me. That won't look suspicious.”

“You can try. But she won’t go. I’d call her but…” He could call or text to warn her, but if she doesn’t get the message or if she does but doesn't know she's being watched…or if she thinks he’s testing her to stay put… “I’m ten, fifteen minutes away. If she doesn’t go with you, at least keep her there until Mitaka can get security sorted out.”

“Got it. I’m at the elevator, just told the doorman to alert Mitaka I'm on my way up.”

“Uncle Luke? Rey has a concussion. Don’t you dare panic her or stress her out or so help me God, I’ll murder you myself.”

But Luke’s line goes dead. He must be in the elevator, then.

Not good enough.

He sends off a rapid-fire text to Mitaka.

_Get Rey in the safe room now._

He can explain the stuff in there to her later.

But again, there’s no reply. Which means Mitaka is either occupied or dead. Ben is already starting to dial Fett when Mitaka’s text comes through a few agonizing minutes later.

_No time. Security breach. Skywalker dead. Snoke here. No ground access. Secondary team 15 min out._

He’s older, but dapper. Refined without being ostentatious.

I think this is what Ben means when he talks about good taste. Just as Ben carries himself with casual confidence and dresses with quiet elegance, this man wears wealth and privilege like an old, comfortable, very expensive shoe.

I might pass him on the street and never look twice, so innocuous does he appear.

Nevertheless, as stylish as he looks, he exudes the kind of menace I’ve only seen from one other person. Only Ben seems to radiate a similar deadliness so effortlessly.

_Where’s Ben?_

In silence, the man gives me a scathing perusal, meant to intimidate and make me cower. And I want to. This feels personal.

And here, in my house, with his striking ice-blue gaze pummeling mine, and there’s definitely danger.

He motions over his shoulder and two more guards bring a bedraggled girl into the room, forcing her into a kneel right next to Luke Skywalker’s lifeless body.

I try to cover my shock when I recognize Bazine.

_…thinks I’m you…is watching me…bad…not…who you think…dangerous! You hear me? Not safe!_

“She’s a very good replica. But with the two of you in the same room? It’s quite obvious you’re the Butcher’s granddaughter.”

“The…butcher?” Silently, I do my best to communicate with Bazine. It’s glaringly obvious someone roughed her up and she’s terrified.

But the old man is talking again. “The Butcher of Yavin? Insidious Father Death? Only one of the most prolific mass murderers of the Nazi regime. His blood runs through both of our veins, though less so in mine, and not for long in yours.”

He gives me a friendly smile and it’s so charming, I’m tempted to smile back. Until his threat sinks in.

And the rest of it.

He’s watching me for a reaction and every lesson I’ve ever learned comes rushing in.

I keep my face still, no easy feat considering what it means if this old man is right.

Not just any old man. Dieter Snoke.

This must be him. The long distant cousin and my grandfather’s only other living heir. Ben’s old headmaster from boarding school.

_Where’d you learn how to use a riding crop?_

_Military reform school._

Oh, Ben. What the fuck happened to you?

A deep, formidable dread sinks into me, so terrifying I break into a light sweat.

“Check the house,” Snoke purrs, and the two who brought Bazine into the room leave us. The assassin who shot Luke takes a place unobtrusively in the corner, and I know there’s no escape.

My heart lurches. Mitaka is somewhere, although I think he’s the only staff on duty this morning. I’m suddenly very worried about him.

This thought makes me want to laugh, maybe a little hysterically. Ben said _no stress_ , and I’m dead sure this qualifies. He’s going to be so pissed off.

My tongue is tingly and it’s radiating into my jaw and prickling at my face.

While I glare and try to look unafraid and do my best to figure out what is happening, it occurs to me numbness and tingling are symptoms of a concussion.

I think the doctor said something but I can’t remember. Or maybe I read it somewhere.

Luke wasn't drugging me.

My relief is immediately overshadowed by worry, of course.

_Did Luke know this frightening old man was coming here? Was he trying to warn me? Lure me away?_

_Did he really want to rescue me?_

“What do you want?” I whisper, determined to stay on track and keep calm.

He sneers, “You cannot imagine my surprise when I discovered you were still alive. And then I learned you were here of all places. And married. Well. I just had to come and pay my respects. You look astonishingly like your father.”

His accent is faint but unmistakably German, the softly intimidating bite reminiscent of every bad guy in every movie I have ever watched since childhood.

_This is no movie. This is a real-life bad guy and you are fucked._

I glance around, frantically wondering if I can grab something and smash him with it or overpower him somehow before his guard shoots me.

The guard frightens me a little more than Snoke, if I’m honest. I think it’s because his face remains utterly blank, despite Luke Skywalker dead in a pool of blood on the floor. Carefully, I keep my eyes well away from the gory wound, where the bullet essentially obliterated Skywalker’s throat.

In this moment, I realize if I die, I’ll never see Ben again.

And I never even told him I love him.

Snoke peruses me with such an evil glitter in his eyes, I actually feel faint. He stalks closer, and he’s very tall, despite his age, his spine unbent by time. Although he is bald and wrinkled, he moves with the grace of a much younger man.

Unlike Luke, I don’t think I can take him down. I’m sinking into paralysis again, that same horrible immobility that strikes whenever I’m afraid.

_There are worse monsters than me out there, Rey._

This one reaches out to touch my bruised jaw and I instinctively turn away. There is no mercy in his gaze. Only hate.

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but the cool grip on my face hardens and I freeze, any words of anger dying on my tongue.

His voice is low and melodious and quite, quite lovely.

“Address me again without my express invitation and I’ll have your tongue cut out.”

I have no doubt he’s entirely capable of doing precisely as he threatens. Or of ordering his henchman to do it.

“Before you die, I am going to ask you several questions. I shall only ask my questions once, and when you answer, you will give me everything. A complete, comprehensive reply. If I am unconvinced of your sincerity, I will instruct my bodyguard to commence with chopping off parts of your friend over there until my answer is satisfied. If we run out of parts to chop off of _her_ , we’ll move on to you. If we arrive at the point where you are missing a tongue and cannot speak, you may write your answers on a sheet of paper. At which point we will proceed to the next question. Is this understood?”

Fighting off a full-body shiver, I nod. “Yes.”

Bazine lets out a breathy, horrified whimper, and I look her way.

My eyes inevitably fall on Skywalker, and bizarrely, all I can think for twelve straight seconds is how the maids are really going to hate us for all the mess.

A nervous giggle burbles up and I almost can’t hold it in. But I do. Snoke is watching with pale eyes that pierce mine like twin ice picks.

He smiles, and it’s bad. This is all very, very bad.

I take a shaky breath. And I wait.

“You were one of the last known people to speak with Han Solo before his untimely demise.”

Dumbly, I stare at him, unsure of what to say. He did not ask a question and so I do not speak.

I know how to do this, how to handle a monster. This particular one trained Ben in the art of interrogation, I’m sure. I think I’m recognizing similar tactics, the way he sets the rules and then a few well-placed tripwires.

Ben taught me how to navigate this sort of thing. All I need to do is follow instructions and stay alive long enough for him to come and save me.

But I have only myself and my own cunning for now.

My attention drifts for a fraction of a second, and Snoke pinches me, cruelly.

A test.

I almost yelp more from shock than pain, but I cut off the reaction quickly, an old lesson hard-won at the hand of my husband no less.

_Breathe._

Something cold slithers in his stare and time spins to a standstill. Nothing exists but this monster and his questions and me, following instructions as accurately as possible.

“Were you one of the last? To speak with him?”

_Focus._

In as measured a tone as I can conjure, I say, “Yes. I believe I was one of the _very_ last, although I met him only that night.”

A glimmer of approval enters his gaze and goosebumps rise on my arms. When he is finished questioning me, he is going to kill me. And Bazine. And then Ben…

“And did Han Solo speak to you of the Kessel Run? That night when he died?”

Fuck, I don’t know if I can remember everything. I was so fucked up, both figuratively – on the heels of all those unpleasant revelations from Ben – and physically, what with all the drugs.

I blink, trying to process the question when Snoke’s eyes flash a warning. I quickly spit out, “He didn’t!” Frantically, I try to recall what all happened. “I’ve never heard of the Kessel Run before.”

My tongue is still slightly numb but I think my ensuing giddiness is more from adrenaline and my concussion than anything. I’m growing more and more certain Luke never put anything in my drink at all.

I’m starting to seriously regret not taking him up on his offer and running away.

I should have trusted him. He might still be alive if only I had.

Snoke shakes his head before turning to the sofa and seating himself on the unbloodied side as regally as one might sit on a throne.

“And did he give you anything? A token perhaps?”

“No,” I reply, confused. “I mean yes. He…g-gave me something to drink. From an old flask.”

Snoke’s gaze penetrates mine and behind the cold, calculating malevolence, I sense a hunger. He wants something, an object that once belonged to Han Solo.

Sighing, he pulls out a long, thin cigar from his front pocket and lights it with a gold lighter.

“Go on.”

“Um. Before he gave me a drink, he left me alone for a few minutes with his, er, friend. Chewie.”

It’s all out of order, but I’m scrambling for time, now, hoping to buy another minute or two.

Snoke takes a long drag on his cigar and blows the smoke my way. I try not to cough. The scent is disgustingly familiar and I decide I abhor cigars and anyone who smokes them.

“Ahh. The mighty Chewbacca. A war hero, so I’ve heard.”

“Yes. I think so.” I have no fucking idea. Bazine is staring at me in silence, pleading for my words to keep us both alive.

“Where did he go? When he left you with Chewbacca?”

The question is deceptively mild, and my mind races, knowing every second that ticks away is a grain of sand running through the hourglass of my life, and every particle of information I give up pushes me one step closer to an invisible finish line.

“Um. We were in H-hell’s Kitchen. In an alley.”

“Surely you can be more…specific than this?”

His man steps forward and the threat is perceptible enough.

From the corner of my vision, opposite him, I catch a movement of light, and a sickening bolt of hope rushes in.

Someone else is here, in the penthouse.

Mitaka? Or one of Snoke’s men? Where in the ever-loving fuck is Ben’s so-called world-class fucking security team?

I breathe again, keeping my expression neutral. “We were at Takodana Palace. Behind it. It’s a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. It was close to midnight, I think.”

“Kanjiklub headquarters?”

Remembering, I nod, “Yes, I think he said that, actually. Kanjiklub.”

“So. Han Solo stopped at Takodana Palace the night he died.”

“Yes?”

Some crazy part of me wants to ask this evil fucker about my mother, ask him if he killed her himself or if he had one of his minions do it.

“Your expression is bordering on insolent, my dear. I would advise against such impertinence.”

He snaps his fingers and his assassin moves to Bazine and I can’t even tell her I’m sorry before he draws a wicked-looking blade across her throat.

A horrible, wet gurgle erupts from her neck and she stares at me, surprised.

In another life, I might have been her, if only Fate had dealt a slightly different hand to either of us.

I think I’m starting to shut down, mentally. My ears are ringing. I blink and show no emotion. Nothing.

Her body slumps to the floor beside Luke's and if it weren't for all the blood I would think they're both asleep.

Snoke takes another long draw on his cigar and narrows his eyes against a cloud of exhaled smoke.

After another minute, he goes on. “My agent tells me Han Solo had something in his possession at the time of his death. Something of great value he had recently acquired. Something valuable enough to cover the bounty on his head.”

“Bounty?” The question slips out, but thankfully Snoke is looking at me with more scrutiny than threat.

I press my lips together, not daring to look back at the shadow I caught earlier and give away the position of whoever might be hiding. Although I’m starting to wonder what the fuck they’re waiting for.

“He managed to evade capture for many years. His man, Chewbacca, was always at his side and not one to be easily overtaken. And Solo remained protected here, in this foul city, thanks to his friendship with the Mayor. But if he ever stepped foot off the island of Manhattan, I’ve been told the Hutt Syndicate would have gladly poured him into a block of concrete and mounted it on Jabba’s living room wall.”

For some odd reason, the next words that pop into my head are from Dryden Vos, ages ago.

_Anyone in this town with the last name Solo is pretty much untouchable._

Again, I want to laugh. My last name is Solo now, and I’ve never been more vulnerable.

I’m quickly coming to realize Han Solo’s “something of great value” could have been me, Sheev Palpatine’s granddaughter and closest living heir.

The sound of a helicopter nearby startles me, and I’m tempted to look out the window. Snoke appears unperturbed as the noise grows louder and I think he must be expecting this.

“That’s my ride,” he informs me almost ruefully, watching me with all the warmth of a reptile. “You were hoping otherwise, weren’t you? Holding on to some fiery spark of hope someone might save you? How marvelous to see it get snuffed out.”

He stubs out his cigar on the arm of the sofa and hot, choking wrath nearly threatens to overwhelm me.

_Where is he, where is Ben?_

Snoke’s icy blue eyes twinkle as if he’s reading my mind, and I want to spit on him.

He looks away, to his guard, but I’m frozen in place by an invisible force, not even considering attacking him in the presence of his armed henchman who I know won’t hesitate to exterminate me as he did Luke and Baz–

And then the shadow in the corner moves again and another, behind Snoke. From the balcony outside.

As if in slow motion, Snoke’s guard perceives the movement and points his gun at me, only before he can get his arm into position, it’s jarred out of place by a gunshot. An instant later, the back of his head explodes, painting the living room wall behind him a bright, wet crimson.

Several more shadows swarm outside.

Men in tactical gear.

I don’t know if they’re friend or foe until Mitaka shouts from a hidden corner, “Miss Rey! Get down!”

Something in his barked command propels me into action.

I dive for cover, running through a slippery pool of blood. I head for the bar even as Snoke leaps up, clearly reading the situation a millisecond after I do.

Another guard has already drawn his gun and fires several rounds at the window, and I tuck myself behind the bar, putting my hands over my ears to block out some of the deafening noise of gunfire and glass shattering.

Snoke doesn’t follow and I viciously hope with all my heart he was caught in the crossfire just as a bottle of raspberry liquor explodes a foot from my head.

I flatten myself to the floor until the shooting stops. Red liquid drips down my arm and it takes a second to realize it isn’t blood, it’s not the right color. Something sharp is digging into my foot, but I think I only stepped on a piece of broken glass.

I’ll be okay. I’m okay.

This is what I think until Snoke crawls around the corner and jumps on me. He takes me by surprise and he’s dripping blood from a gash in his head and he’s wrapped his long, horrible fingers around my neck. His breath stinks like cigar and it reminds me of Han Solo and he’s so strong, stronger than he looks and I'm kicking and trying to move him away but I can't.

I try to think of Ben, but I can only hear Snoke’s breathing and grunting and I’m fighting as hard as I can, but he’s got better leverage and I’m scrawny as hell.

_Ben. I love you. I’m–_

He’s choking me and I’m dying, actually dying this time. Little spots dance before my eyes and I’m panicking because the last thing I’m going to look at in this life can’t be this horrible, hateful old man.

Just as I think this, the pressure around my neck disappears like magic.

My eyes fly open and I suck in a huge, gasping lungful of air.

Mitaka has a garrote around Snoke’s throat. Everything goes very quiet and still and I can’t tear my eyes away.

I gasp for oxygen and I think I know what he meant, Snoke. Watching the light leave his eyes is mesmerizing.

Mitaka, Ben’s humble, soft-spoken servant is coldly murdering him right in front of me and all I can do is watch.

Snoke does try to fight but he’s no match for the younger man’s ferocity or leverage or whatever it is holding him ruthlessly in place.

“Look away,” Mitaka grits out.

_Don’t look at it. Don’t look._

If he's talking to me, I think he’s hoping to spare me. But I’ve seen murder before.

Idly, I note how it seems to take forever to strangle someone in real life. Everything goes very slow and sickly as blood drips from the thin wire around Snoke’s throat and he droops, tongue lolling out grotesquely.

After another half a minute, Snoke is as dead as dead can be and Mitaka stands up, glaring down at the body.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” I whisper.

He swallows and admits, “ _Sayeret Matkal_.”

I shake my head. I think my concussion is messing up my hearing because I have no idea what he just said.

Until he clarifies, “Israeli Special Forces.”

And then I hear a shout and the thunder of feet tromping through the house, and I think I’m going to be okay right up until I hear Ben’s ragged cry, “Rey!”

And I realize I’m never going to be okay. Never.

He shouts my name again, and deep, wracking sobs well up in my chest. I can’t even call out, can’t move, can’t run to him.

And I don’t need to. Mitaka waves him over, and he finds me huddled behind the bar, bawling. I can’t open my eyes, not even when he drags me into his arms.

“…you’re okay…Rey? Sweetheart, look at me.”

The relief coming off of him is palpable, a living thing that makes his voice raspy and his arms tremble. And I cry harder.

“Rey? Are you hurt?”

I’m sobbing so hard I can’t catch my breath, not even when he lifts me up and carries me like a baby. I close my eyes against the sight of Luke and Bazine and several dead men I don't recognize. They're wearing military-style clothing.

The air is chilly, and I think we’re on the balcony and Ben is taking me up the stairs to the roof.

He barks, “Mitaka!”

“Sir?” I hear other footsteps but I can’t open my eyes yet, so instead, I listen.

“Get us the fuck out of here.”

“Yessir.”

“Baby. Open your eyes. I need you to get in the chopper, okay?”

I sniff and climb in, vaguely aware I’m going in a helicopter and my feet are still wet with Luke Skywalker’s blood and Bazine’s and it’s my fault they’re dead just like it’s my fault my parents are dead and it makes sense, really, since I have nothing but death for a legacy.

_You have no idea whose blood is running through your veins. Your relatives are worse than mine could ever be._

Ben is scooting in right behind me, and Mitaka, to my surprise, hops in the pilot’s seat and starts flipping switches. The roar of helicopter blades overhead obliterates everything but the fire in Ben’s eyes as he secures me into the seat harness, tugging on it until it’s so snug I can’t draw a full breath.

His hands are shaking and I’ve never seen him so rattled.

“W-w-where…?”

I’m trying to ask where we’re going but he can’t hear me over the racket.

He makes a few motions to Mitaka, who nods, interpreting his directions with ease. A few other guys in combat-looking gear climb in with us and we lift into the air all I can think is that he came for me.

Again.

And the only thing I seem to be able to offer in return is death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a person of Jewish heritage, I think one of the most satisfying things I can do is make Mitaka a bit of a badass. *winks*
> 
> I have a feeling our creepy Daddy Ben Solo is going to go nuclear next chapter, and I must say I'm quite excited about it. 
> 
> xoxoxo!


	34. avenge

# avenge

Thankfully, the ride is very brief. Out of everything, I think the helicopter is my least favorite.

From the landing pad on the roof, Ben carries me inside. I’m oddly numb.

“Where are we?”

“My parents’ – I mean,” he corrects himself right away, “my mother’s. Skywalker Tower.”

Right. His mother.

Leia Organa will still be at Han Solo’s funeral and likely has no idea her twin brother is dead in the building three blocks away.

“She’s not going to want me here,” I tell him. “Not after everything. Not when she finds out–”

It’s all my fault and Ben must know on some level I’m right, even though his expression doesn’t change.

He says nothing, but he sets me on the kitchen island and drapes his jacket around my shoulders.

Through the window, I can see it from here, our house at the top of the world, and it looks like a few police choppers are circling around. I can hear them, too, until someone slides the glass doors closed, muting the noise.

“Sweetheart, Mitaka’s going to check on you before the doctor gets here.”

Mitaka strides in and he carries a first aid kit, which he sets on the counter before rolling up his sleeves and scrubbing his hands.

While he washes up, Ben snaps a few pointed questions.

“How the fuck did Snoke get in?”

“The floor guard. Let him through the service elevator, just as Luke arrived. Timed it perfectly. Snoke was already in the building by the time Luke was headed up. I was shutting down ground access when you called. Snoke could only bring a handful of men with him, but we were still outnumbered. Half your team–”

They exchange a significant look, more sentiment than words, before Ben glowers and says, “We’ll deal with them soon enough. Tell me what happened.”

He’s gone cold and murderously quiet and he only gets colder and quieter as Mitaka continues, “By the time I could take him out, one of his men had killed Skywalker. Five others disbursed through the house. Mrs. Solo kept Snoke distracted long enough for me to call in another team and take out most of his guards before they could reconvene. You did really well, ma’am, staying calm and keeping him talking like that.”

He says this last to me as he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and slips on a pair of exam gloves from the first aid kit.

“I was really scared,” I admit in a small voice that isn’t mine. Then to Ben, I accuse, “Your security team is supposed to be the best of the best.”

“Oh, believe me, there’s a reckoning coming, baby.”

This soothes me, the near-rabid fury coming through in his voice and rippling off him in fiery waves. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so livid, not even the night his father attacked me.

Mitaka hesitantly adds, “It’s my fault. I didn’t realize there was a breach until it was too late. I was in the security closet, watching the cameras. I tried to text a message to Luke in the living room, tried to warn him, sir, but Snoke was already in. I had to wait for my moment or we never would have stood a chance.”

“It’s all right, Mitaka. You did exactly what I pay you to do. And I owe you. Everything.”

“It was nothing, sir. As you said, my job.”

I whisper, “You told me to look away. When you killed him.”

He gives me a curt nod. “Did he hurt you, from the, er…choking?”

Ben stiffens at the question and another rush of feral energy sizzles out of him.

“My face is tingly and sort of numb? But it was before he…before.”

“I’ll take a look.” He glances to Ben for permission.

“Thank you, Mitaka,” Ben rumbles. “Doctor’s on her way up now. And the police won’t be far after.”

Ben hovers, though he gives Mitaka enough room to shine a penlight in my eyes and ask me a few questions and give me a few strange orders like “smile big” and “lift up both of your arms” and “tell me who the president is” and ask me what day it is.

My eyes drift to Ben, even though they inevitably return to the blood spatters on Mitaka’s face. Thankfully he’s wearing dark clothes and I can’t see–

I don’t want to see anyone else.

I can’t stop shivering, but I can’t exactly jump down and run away what with the cut on my foot.

“You saved my life.” My voice is shaking, but I think it’s adrenaline flooding my system.

“Miss Rey. I need you to breathe, all right?”

“Is she okay?”

“She is. In shock, and no wonder. But physically fine.” To me, Mitaka says, “You might have sustained some mild nerve damage from your concussion. It can cause tingling and numbness as you’re describing. We’ll let the doctor confirm it, but I think you’ll be all right.”

“My foot.”

Ben scowls at this and when Mitaka lifts my bloody foot, he hums when he sees the piece of glass sticking out.

“When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?” he queries, examining the injury without touching it.

I have no idea, but to my surprise, Ben answers, “She had a booster on schedule when she was twelve.”

Mitaka nods as if it isn’t odd at all that my husband knows my immunization history better than I do.

And it hits me. I don’t even know when my real fucking birthday is.

When they found me at four, I was able to hold up my fingers and tell the social workers my age, but by the time I was talking again, I had long forgotten my actual date of birth.

They told me I could pick any day I wanted, so I picked my new friend Finn’s. Saint Patrick’s Day. He never minded sharing, and honestly, it was always a comfort.

I snort a laugh and then another. This is fucking hysterically funny for some reason.

Ben and Mitaka trade an alarmed glance.

My birthday isn’t even my real birthday, and this seems like a stupid thing to lose but it hurts.

“When?” I stutter, trying to catch my breath. “W-when is my b-birthday? My real one?”

Instant comprehension washes over Ben’s face. “April. The tenth.”

“Well that’s a stupid day,” I tell him before bursting into tears.

Just then someone who I can only assume is the private family doctor is ushered in by an armed guard. Similar to Mitaka, she examines me as I sit on the kitchen island, not batting an eye over the bruise on my face or the blood all over my feet.

Ben paces like a caged tiger until the doctor assures him I’m fine.

Maybe it’s juvenile, but I start crying again under the pretense of pain – they have to scrub out the cut with soap and water and it hurts like hell – but really I’m sad because we were supposed to have Beebee come live with us tomorrow and there’s no way he can now.

Not with my living room covered in blood and broken glass. And dead bodies.

Not to mention fucking _Snoke_ put out his cigar on the lovely ostrich leather sofa and we’ll have to get a new one.

And I miss my cat.

I try to explain this to Ben, but I’m a blubbering mess at this point.

The doctor advises him I’ll need to have a blood test done in a few weeks just in case I picked something up, but my foot doesn’t need stitches and she says it’s better to let the injury bleed and clean itself out. This gets me bawling all over again, and Ben excuses her, leaving us alone.

Mitaka has already slipped out before I could tell him thank you.

Ben’s mother will be here soon, probably, and I try not to think about how it’s my fault her husband is dead and her brother is dead and her beautiful fur coat is in a police evidence locker somewhere and her only son is scarred for life, right on his face and–

It’s all my fault.

Ben is watching me with haunted eyes and I can’t look at him but there’s nowhere else to look and I know he won’t just leave me, so I burrow my face in his chest and try to shut out the rest of the world and escape. I wish I could have a pill for the pain, but the doctor said it wouldn’t be a good idea because of my concussion.

“Rey.”

I can’t. I just can’t right now.

“Rey. Sweetie.”

The raw anguish in his voice tempts me into sniffling, “Huh?”

A soft touch on my chin forces my eyes open and I see he’s hunched over me, at eye level.

His lips are shiny and wet and in the light, I can see all of the pretty striations of amber and brown and even a tint of green in his eyes. I scoot closer, tucking my hands under his sweater and smoothing his t-shirt.

I sniff a loud, unladylike snort through the nose, but he doesn’t care if I’m snotty and gross. Suddenly his mouth is on mine, hot, carnal, devouring. Roughly, he yanks me closer, pressing his torso into the vee of my parted legs, fingers gripping hard at my waist.

As quickly as he kisses away any resistance I might have, after all, we’re in plain view of the guards outside and in his recently widowed mother’s kitchen, he withdraws, breathing an inch away from my mouth, staring at me with some unfathomable question.

His fingers tighten on my arms and he’s freaking out, I realize, shaken. He’s barely holding it together, unnerved by all of this as much as I am.

“I almost lost you,” he exhales.

His mouth crashes onto mine again, and he cups my jaw, forcing me to open and angling his head for a ravenous assault, even as I tear at his t-shirt and fumble with his belt. In return, he jerks my sweatpants and underwear down my legs in three harsh tugs.

With barely confined aggression, he pushes my knees wide and shoves a finger between my legs, then two, curling them up and making me clamp down at the sudden intrusion. I’m hardly ready for sex, but I don’t care and neither does he. His touch burns, but when I grope at the front of his trousers, I can feel how he wants me. He flings my hand away and I hear the impatient rasp of a zipper.

His teeth rake savagely against my neck and when he mutters, “Open,” I cock back my hips and let him slide my ass to the edge of the counter and stroke the head of his dick over me until we’re both panting.

There’s a whispered footstep just out of sight and his eyes flicker up but whatever or whoever it is must be quickly gone because Ben is looking at me again. His jacket is still draped over my shoulders and will block anyone’s view. I assure myself it only looks like we’re kissing until he drags me off of the counter, hooking my knees under his arms and jouncing his hips until he’s wedged into me so tight it makes me let out a muffled squeal.

This hurts, and I whimper again but he only grunts, “You can take it. Yes, you can. Come on.”

He sucks a toe-curling kiss into the side of my neck and I moan, but very gently.

“More,” he growls, trying to ram his way inside before I’m ready.

He kisses me to shut me up and I try to relax and hold my legs open until he’s gritting his teeth and slick enough to go deeper and huffing in my ear. For a minute, it’s just the wet smack of our bodies rubbing together before I notice I’m still on my period. When I look down, I can see him, streaked with blood. There’s blood on his hand, too.

It’s everywhere, and he’s getting blood on my t-shirt as he gropes crudely at my chest and lifts his hips, impaling me, hard. I try to squirm away.

“Stop it,” he rasps. “Look at me. Rey. Look at me.”

I can’t. So I close my eyes and let him take and breathe in the scent of him, mixed with the faint scent of blood and lemon dish detergent lingering in the air.

He’s being quiet, too, and I think there’s someone standing just out of sight when he ducks his head into the crook of my neck and shudders against me. It’s over in a few savage strokes and a soft, restrained cry and a hard, bruising clutch of his hands that will certainly leave marks.

I’m crying again, not because he hurt me – he did, but I don’t care – but because he’s so broken and this is all so fucked up.

I think he must know on some level I can never tell him I love him.

It’s the one thing he needs and it’s the one thing I can never do.

Because I finally figured it out, somewhere between my near-death experience and his nearly suffocating brand of devotion.

Everything I love goes away. Murdered before my eyes. Destroyed, violently.

It’s my blood, I think. I mean. Not my actual blood, but my birthright.

An inheritance of evil.

It’s a curse.

I’m all fucked up and this is all terribly fucked up and he’s pulling out all too soon, setting me bare-assed and dripping on top of his jacket on the counter. His face is slightly damp with perspiration as he finds Mitaka’s dishtowel and scrubs it over my thighs, only leaving me long enough to zip his pants and toss the towel in the bin and snatch my pants from the floor.

Something dark and elusive moves in his eyes and he kisses me again, even though my nose is red and I’m still hiccupping little sobs.

“S-someone’s out there?” I whisper, trying to distract him.

“It’s just Beck.” Beck Ushar, one of the few original security team members Ben didn’t end up replacing.

“How do you know he can be trusted?” I hiss as Ben pulls my pants over my legs.

His eyes turn steely and he mouths, “Because he was off-duty the night of our party, so I had no reason to fire him. And he was with me all morning today when I went to Dad’s funeral.”

“Oh.”

“And,” he says in a louder voice, “because he knows what happens to traitors.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ushar steps around the corner and I might as well be a part of the cabinetry, so well trained is he not to even look at me. But I give him a thorough once-over. The man definitely exudes an air of menace that I’m sure would make any assassin think twice.

Ben smirks as if reading my doubtful thoughts. “We should get you cleaned up.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I sent Mitaka to get some clothes and a few things from home.”

“Isn’t it, like, a crime scene, now?” My voice wobbles and tears well once again.

“Shhh.” A grim promise lifts his pretty mouth, his beautiful dimple somewhat marred by the surgical tape holding his cheek together. “I think you should have a bath and lie down and rest before the police get here.”

I grab his hand. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t. I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Ever.”

True to his promise, he doesn’t leave my sight.

After a long bath in the guest room, where Ben reminds me his lawyer will be here with law enforcement and I should keep my identity to myself, I change into fresh clothes and try to eat something.

The police are here for hours, and I don’t want to think about it. They come just after Leia arrives, and I don’t want to think about the way Ben’s mother’s face turns ashen when I explain, in a somewhat abbreviated version of events, what happened to her twin brother.

Of course, the cops think it was a kidnapping attempt gone wrong and Luke just happened to be there, visiting at the same time as an old friend from school.

As I talk, Ben only grows grave and severe to the point of brutality.

Although this interrogation is nothing like the one I endured with Canady and Ben stays with me the whole time, it is quite stressful, nonetheless. Anytime anyone asks me a question Ben doesn’t like, he offers a thunderous scowl and Vos simply shakes his head until they move on to a different one.

Eventually, they leave and Ben confirms, “We’ll be moving to the Hosnian tomorrow, Mother, and be out of your hair soon enough.”

“That isn’t necessary, Benny. You and your – Rey – are welcome to stay here for as long as you want.”

“Thank you, but I think it will be easier to sell the penthouse and find a new house–”

“Sell it?” I interrupt.

“Assuming you don’t want to live there?” he asks in genuine surprise.

I know real estate is a bitch to find in New York, although probably not so much for Ben, but I can’t see myself living anywhere else. Besides, it’s sort of the only home I’ve ever really known, aside from the yacht.

Leia gives me a faint smile and says, “Maybe you two should talk about it before making any long-term decisions. That penthouse has been in the family for a long time.”

This is news to me, although I’m sure Poe can give me the full run-down.

“Still. I’ve been neglecting certain business matters and I’ll be coming and going at odd hours, Rey’s security notwithstanding. I’d prefer to coordinate things from my hotel. But thank you, Mother.”

It does not escape my attention he says “my hotel” as if he owns the damned place. Knowing him, he probably does.

But Leia only nods and suddenly looks very tired and it is all I can do not to blurt out a pathetic apology and start crying again.

Ben’s mood darkens immediately, and I don’t dare cross him, nor do I argue when he starkly informs Leia we’re staying just one night and orders me to bed at seven-thirty like I’m a child.

I’m not tired, but I’m not exactly eager to stay in the company of his mother and the guards prowling the patio outside and lurking near the elevator entrance.

And if Ben says I’m exhausted, then maybe he’s right. I feel fuzzy and out of sorts, mentally, after being questioned.

He tucks me into a lovely bed and settles into a nearby chair with his phone and a deep scowl on his face.

Surprisingly, I sleep for a few hours.

I wake after midnight and I hear him, speaking in low tones in the shadows by the bedroom door. Sitting up, I listen.

“It’s my fault for splitting your duties like that.”

There’s a soft murmur, but I can’t hear what is said, only Ben.

“…whatever fucking side job you're doing, it's over…exclusive…to me…priority…”

“Daddy?”

He pauses and I hear him hiss, “We're not done, yet.” I see his silhouette duck into the room as I slip from under the sheets. “What's wrong, princess?” he coos in much gentler tones though I detect a frown, probably because I’m out of bed.

Barefoot, I pad over to him, limping a little, and sniff, “I can't sleep.”

He pulls me into his side and Mitaka stands just outside our door.

“Mitaka,” I mumble, “I never thanked you earlier. Not properly. Whatever you want, just name it.”

I glance up at Ben in silent communication. This might cost more than a new Bugatti or a house or anything, but I know Ben will give me anything I ask for.

For the first time all day, he flashes a grin, and Mitaka quietly assures me, “Thank you, ma’am, truly, but it's not necessary. Mr. Solo and I have already come to a satisfactory arrangement. Just now.”

This makes me feel better and Ben shuffles me back to bed, this time joining me there, though he does nothing more than stroke my hair until I fall back asleep.

Sometime in the night, I wake again, screaming.

Usually, when I have bad dreams, I go quiet and stiff and utterly still, frozen.

But not this time.

Everything is punctuated by foul cigar smoke and it reminds me of Han Solo’s horrible, whiskered face and somehow it morphs into Mr. Randd, my old high school math teacher, and instead of Snoke, it’s his cruel fingers wrapped around my throat, biting like a garrote until blood gushes between them.

Ben is nearly beside himself before I fully rouse myself, unable to extinguish the image of him covered in blood.

There was blood everywhere. My blood, his family’s blood. The blood of uncounted thousands and more.

The Butcher’s granddaughter.

The name echoes in my ears and fury glitters in his eyes as I try to explain, but it all comes out jumbled and chaotic, like my dream.

“…a-a-and then Snoke asked me if your father gave me a token and I forgot to tell him about the fur coat,” I sob into Ben’s neck as he croons helplessly, having no idea what I’m talking about.

“Baby, he’s dead. Mitaka killed him, remember?”

I just want a sleeping pill or something, something to make me forget and I beg for one, but Ben insists I can’t.

It’s very early when I wake again. He’s on the phone, speaking French, and he sounds borderline agitated. If it weren’t for the blatant hostility emanating from every line of his body, I might be lulled back to sleep.

But, he ends the call and turns to find me staring at him.

“Was that your grandmother?”

He nods. He’s already dressed and my stomach rumbles. I hardly ate yesterday.

“W-what’s wrong?”

“We found the breach in my security team. A new hire. He’s been questioned and the only thing useful we got out of him was your name. Your _real_ name.”

I don’t understand and can only blink at him, confused. “I thought you and your grandmother are the only ones who knew?”

Still troubled by my nightmares, it doesn’t help at all when he says, “I think my father suspected, too.”

“Snoke. He told me your father went to Kanjiklub because he had something he was going to sell. Do you think it might have been…me?”

His jaw flexes so hard, I wonder if he’s going to crack a tooth.

But he kneels at the side of the bed and informs me, “We just need to go through your past with a fine-toothed comb, ferret out anyone and everyone who might want to hurt you. Put it together like a puzzle. Okay?”

I ask the obvious question. “You don’t think it could be…her?”

I’m talking about his grandmother. She’s the only one I can think of, besides Ben’s mother, who has a reason to actively hate me, or at least who I am.

And I know she was the other monster who was there that night. In the car, behind the veil.

“I don’t know if it’s her,” Ben admits, although he sounds skeptical. “I don’t think so. I think she wouldn’t have let you live so long if she had ill intentions on your life.”

“Maybe she heard what I did?” The cut on his face draws my attention, and my heart leaps with guilt. “Maybe she thinks, after what happened in that restaurant and…and then after, that I can’t be trusted with secrets? Like you said?”

“Nona was paying people off, I think. Your counselors, maybe your foster families. Someone else knows who you are.”

“But who?”

“I swear to God, baby, I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. Okay?”

“But i-it’s all my f-f-fault!” I can barely get the words out as everything comes crashing back in.

“No, this isn’t your fault. But you’d better believe Daddy’s gonna make those motherfuckers pay.”

“Who?”

“Everyone,” he breathes, moving close and pressing a soft kiss to my forehead like I’m a little girl. “Yeah, I’m really going to have to make it hurt.”

Somehow I know he means death and violence and probably more murder and extortion and blackmail, and it makes me feel a bit better. Ben is well and truly furious with the kind of destructive, volcanic wrath that is going to plow through our enemies like a force of nature.

“We’ll figure it out, okay? In the meantime, we’re going to make a little trip to Niima.”

“Why Niima?”

“There are a few people there I want to talk to,” he insinuates with a touch of forbidding. “Like your old math teacher, for one.”

Niima. I swallow and meet his gaze, but I won’t stop him from doing whatever he needs to do.

He brushes a lock of hair from my forehead and kisses my tear-stained cheek. “I want to know about anyone who might have a grudge. Between the time I…left you and the time I found you again.” His eyes sear into mine. “I want to know everything. If someone bumped into you on the fucking subway and didn't fucking say _pardon me_ , I want to know about it.”

After a hasty breakfast in bed, I’m dressed. Mitaka has not only managed to retrieve my phone, but also my diamond bracelet and my favorite cardigan, and my coat from the penthouse.

Ben lingers patiently while I do my makeup and smooth a flat iron through my hair under the pretense of getting ready, when really I’m doing my best to avoid his mother. He’s on his phone non-stop and I catch bits and pieces of conversation, but much of it is in Italian and I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose, speaking a language I don’t understand, so I don’t worry.

A different helicopter waits for us on top of Skywalker Tower and unlike the last one, this one is as luxurious as the jet or the yacht or anything else of Ben’s, all cream leather and muted details and surprisingly spacious. It strikes me again, how truly insulated we are from the rest of the world.

I still don’t love this particular mode of transportation, but the ride is to be just over an hour and is way faster than driving. Ben tells me we’ll stop for a late lunch and take a car the rest of the way to Niima. Once the helicopter takes off, I am able to call Rose and Finn and let them know a very condensed version of recent events and beg Rose to take good care of Beebee for me until we get back.

I end my call and meet Ben's gaze and wonder why he loves me.

“It’s okay if you can’t say it,” he blurts into the relative silence between us, squinting out the window at the landscape below. “I’m not sure I deserve it, and forcing it out of you would be a bit pointless, I suppose.”

Shaken by his omniscience, I take a sip of water from the bottle at my side and avoid replying, even if his words send a gloomy chill through me.

He’s very good at covering his thoughts under a veneer of aloof nonchalance. I’ve met many others with the same skill, but Ben is a different animal altogether. He’s dangerous. Powerful.

And I know, or at least suspect, he’s done terrible things. To Bazine. Canady. And God knows who else.

His dark head rests against the headrest and his eyes remain fixed on the view outside. He hasn’t touched me, not sexually, since yesterday in the kitchen, and from the dark circles under his eyes, I know he must be worn out. But some part of me wonders if he thinks I’m tainted, dirty.

Cursed.

* * *

They arrive in Niima just in time for the end of the dinner rush at the local steakhouse, by far the nicest dining establishment for many miles, set on the edge of town. The restaurant is connected to a tavern on the other side of the building, and he decides they might as well eat something while they wait.

Rey settles into a corner booth and Mitaka and Vic take another booth next to them. Ben keeps a placid smile on his face as he listens politely to the blowsy waitress list off the dinner specials that are undoubtedly going to give him indigestion if he eats any of it.

But Rey is hungry and she orders a burger and fries, seeming excited about the food if nothing else. Adopting a _when in Rome_ attitude, he does the same. Over the piped-in classic rock music that lends a sort of nostalgia to the place, he can just catch the occasional clash of pool balls from the bar next door.

Fett should already be over there, along with the two cops who took Rey’s statement after her math teacher assaulted her. According to Fett, they’re here every night like clockwork after finishing their shift at the local precinct.

Fett assures him Bernard Randd will be here, too.

Mitaka and Vic finish their hasty dinners before Ben and Rey do, and when they get up to leave, Rey moves to follow. Ben halts her, knowing they’ll need a few minutes to clear out the bar next door.

“Ben, what are we doing here?” she asks.

She’s finished every bite of her burger and most of her fries and resumes slurping down a Sprite, although with decidedly more delicacy than she would have employed before they met. She looks as if she’s uncomfortable being back here. As if she doesn’t quite fit into this world anymore.

Their waitress doesn’t return, not that he expects her to, and Ben notes how the restaurant empties almost as if by magic, and the doors are locked and the music shut off.

The staff has been paid off and they’ll have the place to themselves for as long as he wishes it.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.”

She follows, more curious than afraid, limping only a little as he leads her past the hostess station and down a short hallway. Beyond this are the restrooms labeled “guys” and “gals” and then the bar. It’s a smallish room, lit with dim, stained-glass fixtures and decorated with old-time photos from the eighteen hundreds.

A pool table takes up the main portion of the room, which is lined with shady booths and a bar at one end. Ben cares for none of this, solely focused on one thing.

_Ah. There you are, you little fuck._

Rey’s old math teacher and two of the local cops who did everything they could to quash her accusations four years ago.

The cops have already been bound and gagged on the floor by the pool table, and the bar is empty, too.

Good.

If she is surprised by any of this, Rey doesn't say a word, but when she inhales in shock, he knows she hasn’t laid eyes on the man since he attacked her all those years ago.

However, this is the only indication she's taken aback, and other than this, his good girl just flares her nostrils and clings to his arm, waiting without any other demonstration of emotion.

Just like he taught her.

He can see the moment when Randd recognizes her, see the way the man’s eyes crawl over her expensive clothes and her vastly more polished appearance, noting the drastic changes since she was a scrappy high schooler. The man swallows nervously, then slides his gaze over to Ben, who seats himself in the nearest booth and pulls Rey in beside him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Randd spits, full of false bravado. Ben smiles. These types are always the best. They always fold the fastest and with the most mess.

“Me? I’m your worst fucking nightmare.” He stretches his arms across the back of the booth and rests a possessive hand on Rey’s shoulder in an unmistakable declaration of ownership.

Mitaka shoves his quarry into the seat across from them and moves to guard the door.

By unspoken cue, Fett steps close, cocking a hip and sneering as he leans against Randd’s bench, looming with enough menace to make Randd turn a pleasing shade of green when he pulls an eight-inch bowie knife and jabs it into the table in a single, violent flourish.

Ben purrs, “Talk again without permission and lose a finger.”

Rey stiffens but says nothing.

At this, Randd blanches, eyeing Fett’s knife.

“You owe my wife something, I think.”

Under Ben’s not-so-subtle prompt, the man begins to sputter. “Um. Rey, I…am r-really sorry about what h-happened. A-all those years ago. I was going through a hard time and–”

“Not good enough.”

With a brief nod to Fett, he mutters to Rey, “You don’t have to watch this, sweetheart.”

She tucks her face into his shoulder and he cradles her head there while Fett jerks Randd’s wrist to the side and saws off a finger. He waits for the screaming to turn to blubbering sobs before he passes him a cloth napkin and chucks the finger to the floor. It lands in front of the horrified cop closest to them, and Ben shoots him a sharklike grin.

An ugly threat, but one not to be taken lightly.

Ben can already tell they’ll spill everything. Fett managed to uncover quite a bit of information earlier.

Eventually, Rey turns and hisses, “So you’re saying it was just that one time? With me?”

Latching onto this, Randd snivels, “Yeah. One slip up. I swear.”

“You couldn’t tell the cops what a liar you were?” she accuses, her voice quivering with outrage.

“I-I could’ve lost my house. My wife, my kids.”

Ben allows this to hover in the air for a few seconds before he interjects, “That’s so strange. I heard Rey was one of the rare lucky ones who managed to fend you off.”

Right on cue, Fett sneers, “How the hell you think I got him to come here tonight?”

Fett says this more for Rey’s sake than anything and Randd begins to visibly tremble when he realizes he’s been caught. All of them but for Rey know Fett lured him here with a text, pretending to be one of the girls in his class.

“Lying to me is an exceptionally stupid thing to do.” Beside him, Rey is radiating righteous indignation, and justifiably so. It fuels his own temper, not that it needs much help, these days. “I heard you like to put those fingers of yours in cookie jars that don’t belong to you. Especially underage ones.”

“No! No, they’re always of age, I swear.”

Smoothly, Ben persists, “And then if they try to say anything, your cop buddies over there like to cover it up for you. Just like they did four years ago when you tried the same thing with my wife.”

In a panic, Randd’s eyes flash to Rey, then Ben again, and one of the cops on the floor starts squealing from behind his gag until Mitaka strides over and delivers a vicious kick to his gut.

“No, no, no!” Randd screams as Fett takes hold of his mutilated hand and pins it to the table. “You have to believe me! They’re liars, whatever they said was a lie!”

This time Rey doesn’t look away when Fett takes a finger. She flinches, though, and when she scoots even closer, Ben sighs and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

_Baby needs some closure. And if this helps with the nightmares, great. It can't possibly make them any worse._

“I think you’re the only liar here, and I already warned you how fucking stupid that is. I’m going to leave you and him alone for a bit. He’s going to ask you some questions. If you want to go through life without any more fingers, by all means, keep lying.”

He turns to Rey and utters, “Go wait with Mitaka by the door, princess. Daddy needs a minute.”

With a fulminating glare to Randd, Rey obediently scoots from the booth and follows Mitaka.

He cranes his neck, waiting until she's far enough away. He can feel her watching him, even if he knows she can’t hear this next part.

Maybe he isn’t worthy of being loved. Maybe he isn’t redeemable in the eyes of the only person that matters. But this doesn’t mean he can’t still be a dragon, if and when the occasion calls for it.

Fett slides a piece of paper onto the table along with a ballpoint pen from the Niima Holiday Inn, avoiding the streaks of blood on the overly shellacked tabletop.

“Before I go. I’m going to need you to write something down for me.”

Rallying, Randd gasps, “The cops’ll never accept a coerced confession.”

“We’ll see.” He leans in close and mutters confidentially, “It won’t matter either way. Not to you.”

Randd blinks. “W-why?”

“If not a confession, then think of this as your last will and testament. My wife tends to be too trusting. Likes to believe the best of everyone, even me. She believes I'm going to let this go. Let you live.” He drills his stare into the piece of shit sitting across from him, openly letting his monster off the chain, if only for a minute. “But, I just can’t. Now pick up that fucking pen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll know I can't write a darkfic without chopping off someone's digits. *winks*

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter for fic updates, DMs, and occasional thirst tweets and rampant horniness! [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy)  
>   
> My works:
> 
> A/B/O:  
> [House of The Rising Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512809/chapters/51276604) (A/B/O, Epic Scale Fantasy with a Canon-flavor, Read the tags, WIP to resume soon)  
> [The Wickedy Witch of Carnegie Hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450107/chapters/64445872) (A/B/O, Enchanted AU, Fluffy, Sweet, Low-angst, WIP)  
> [First Knot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978156) (Preylo, A/B/O, quick and FILTHY, COMPLETE)  
> [Bad Neighbors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874359) (A/B/O, cop/lawyer, enemies-to-lovers, COMPLETE)  
>   
> Darker Stuff:  
> [Dirty Deeds](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/28675278) (DARK, BREYLO, BENLO, one-shot that may be more someday)  
> [creep](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/25554175/chapters/62008714) (Stalker, DARKFIC, Thriller, WIP)  
> [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740) (Soulmates, Killers, COMPLETE)  
> [Little Animals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902718) (DARKFIC, SMUT, Read the Tags, COMPLETE)  
> [GatorWestern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502323) (Vampire/Horror WIP, COMPLETE)  
>   
> Short and Smutty:  
> [Double Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903981/chapters/47144941) (Breylo, Benlo, Absolutely raunchy filth, smut, COMPLETE)  
> [Smoke Gets In Your Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231210) (Short fic, stoner soulmates, filthy smut, COMPLETE)  
> [Fire Down Below](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659043/chapters/49061249) (Filthy two-shot, Porn AU, crack, COMPLETE)  
> [Freak Show](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098873) (Circus AU, Comedy, one-shot series)  
> [Special Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836562) (one-shot)  
> [Urinal Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412686) (one-shot, no urine or cakes involved, I swear!)  
>   
> Long and Plotty (and also Smutty):  
> [Say It With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710287) (Funny, Escort/Sugar Daddy AU, smutty, COMPLETE)  
> [Music To My Ears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121106) (Classical Music/Assassins AU, re-booting WIP)  
> [Devil on the Dark Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287023) (Modern Hades/Persephone Fairy Tale WIP, one more chapter to go!)  
>   
> Also: [Into That Good Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437334/chapters/53609257) (Sweet, Rated M, Emotional, COMPLETE)
> 
> Currently, Cake, American Stars, Knotting Hill, Every Which Way But Loose, and The Secret Flower Club are all waiting behind hidden doors until I wrap up a few other WIPs.  
> Although my WIPs are in varying stages of progress, I can promise none of them are abandoned, just resting. :)
> 
> XOXO!


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